


a world well done

by vaudelin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Burned Out Dean Winchester, Castiel Has Self-Worth Issues (Supernatural), Castiel Has a Crush on Dean Winchester, Comforting Castiel (Supernatural), Complete, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Getting to Know Each Other, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Idiots in Love, Immovable Object + Irresistible Force, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Office Worker Castiel (Supernatural), Office Worker Dean Winchester, Overworked Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Socially Awkward Castiel (Supernatural), office politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin
Summary: After five years of being overlooked for the job title of his dreams, Dean has grown accustomed to his fair share of disappointment. But the guy who got the position, a nepotistic hire named Castiel Novak, is really pushing the boundaries of his patience.Too bad the guy’s a dud, but the legacy project has survived worse. Castiel can be as antisocial as he wants and hide out in his office all he likes; Dean will just batten down the hatches and ensure his team weathers the storm coming their way.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 362
Kudos: 347
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. DAY ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kradarua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kradarua/gifts).



> It's here, the first of my auction winners for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020! I'm so grateful to kradarua for giving me the excuse to finish this fic that's been sitting in WIP status since 2018. As the tags suggest, this is a Enemies to Friends to Lovers fic, so expect miscommunication and misunderstandings to be a thing until Dean and Castiel can finally sort their shit out. 
> 
> Much, much love to the following people: to Zlata, for encouraging me with delightful feedback throughout the entire writing process; to Lise, for being my rock throughout the years, even through different fandoms; to Maria, for her wondrous responses and encouragement; and to Remmy, my fandom spouse, for allowing me to vent (whine) about the writing process. iluguys ❤❤❤
> 
> This work is not especially betaed, so if you see typos et al they are all my doing - sorry!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you met him?” Inias asks. “Does he seem at all like he knows what he’s doing?”
> 
> Hannah tips her head side to side, a gesture they all recognize as meaning she’s trying to find a nice way to say something terrible. 
> 
> “He’s… quiet,” Hannah finishes lamely.
> 
> “Great,” Miriam drawls. She balls up her lunch bag and tosses it at the trash bin on the way out the door. “T-minus twenty to an incoming dud.”

Adler calls Dean’s office shortly before lunch time, breaking the news Dean already suspected was coming.

“Hey, Dean,” his boss begins over the phone line. “Just letting you know that Raph has decided to move Bart onto another project, effective immediately.”

At his seat behind his desk, Dean pumps his fist in private celebration. He quickly glances at his office door, ensuring none of his team is watching him savor the loss of their current SA.

Dean schools his features back to neutral, plucks up a pen to busy his anxious hands. He trains his voice down to airily impassive—his best shot at sounding professional—before he dares attempt a reply. “Oh?”

“Mm-hmm.” A jostling noise rustles on Adler’s end of the line, something akin to shuffling papers. “He wanted me to ask: how would you feel about filling in the position while—”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, excitement bursting from him. “I’d be glad to.”

“Oh, good.” Adler breathes out a sigh, and Dean can hear the smile in what he says next, even as it makes Dean’s own grin disappear. “Thank you, Dean. Rest assured, it’s only temporary. The new SA will be starting right away, but without Bart there to train him, we’ll need you to step in—”

“What, wait?” Dean frowns, pausing in his fidgeting. “A new SA?” When Adler hums his agreement, Dean continues, “Raph knew I put my name in for the position, right?”

“I don’t know,” Adler says. “It’s not my department. But as your boss, I’m saying we need you right where you are, taking care of the team on the day-to-day level.”

 _So you don’t have to look after them_ , Dean adds uncharitably. The thought deflates him as much as the disheartening news. But he can’t show Adler that any of this has affected him; he shores himself up, keeping the worst of his disappointment at bay. “Understood, sir.”

“Great. Thank you, Dean. Wouldn’t be able to do it without you.”

“Of course.” Dean pushes a smile into his voice. “Oh, and sir? Do you know anything about the new hire? Are they an internal transfer, or did Raph hire somebody from—”

“Sorry,” Adler says, cutting in. “Not my department.”

“Of course.” Dean nods to himself. “Thank you.”

Adler thanks him as well, and with it hangs up on the worst news Dean has received in his career.

Five years of so-called exemplary work put in, and Dean is once again passed over for the job title of his dreams.

* * *

Dean breaks the news to the rest of the team before they disperse at noon. The revelation of a new hire goes over with a vague murmur of interest, which is about as much enthusiasm received as any other edict coming down the pipes from management. Everyone is clearly more concerned about enjoying the full allotment of their lunch—Dean included—so Dean dismisses them and then settles in for his brown bag in the break room, situated one floor down, offside the floor for client services.

“So Zach had no idea if the new guy’s any good,” Inias grouses over a ham sandwich, crowded in on Dean’s corner of the lunch table.

“Or if they’re even a guy.” Miriam levels Inias with a sharp look. “Check your assumptions, dude.”

Inias rolls his eyes. “Last three analysts have been guys.”

“Last three analysts have sucked,” Miriam counters. “All the more reason why you shouldn’t put that kind of energy out there.”

“Agreed.” Dean tips his soda can toward Miriam’s favor. As devs, the three of them have always dealt with the brunt of what comes from a terrible SA. They’ve gone through four system analysts in as many years, which is a statistic that seems sadly commonplace, based on the rumors coming from other teams regarding their own SAs.

Dean sighs loudly, lowering his BLT to its plate. “How the fuck Bart managed that promotion, I’ll never know. Guy didn’t even know how to do his job. Always left me doing most of it,” he adds, not that the complaint is news to them, or worthy of garnering any sympathy.

“Because it’s Raph’s way.” Inias gestures sagely with his free hand, leaning back in his plastic chair. “He’s director of operations, the king of analysts and kiss-assery. Anybody who sucks up to him long enough or well enough is sure to move on to greener pastures.”

“Except we merry devs of legacy,” Miriam deadpans. “Last ones left on the abattoir floor.”

“Cheers from the slaughterhouse.” Dean drains the last of his drink.

“For what it’s worth,” Inias says to him, “I’m sorry you didn’t get the job. Lord knows why you want it, but we all know you’d be good at it.”

“You mean the worst,” Miriam mumbles. “Absolute tyrant.” The smirk she tosses his way says she’s only kidding.

“Thanks.” Dean spits it out, sarcastic, although he really means it. If it weren’t for his coworkers, Dean doubts he would’ve lasted so long beneath the constant sting of rejection.

His team is strong, and Dean has managed to keep the legacy system running smoothly despite how Raphael’s special projects keep poaching their better members (Bart notwithstanding). Dean’s grateful that his core group of dev and QA has escaped each reshuffle relatively unscathed.

And the hiccup of a new SA is nothing they haven’t dealt with before; in a month they’ll be able to tell whether the new hire is worth their mettle. If so, they’ll get pulled into the dynamics Dean’s been building, the cogs kept cranking smoothly.

Dean might not be legacy’s official leader, but his efforts have made him the de facto system analyst, spanning the tenure of the last three SAs and then some.

So. At least there’s that.

At the corner of the break room, a head of brown hair pops in from the entryway. Hannah has her wireless headset on, the mic pushed up and muted. She glances back into the hallway before she discreetly gestures for their attention.

Dean elbows Inias, who breaks from his conversation with Miriam to see what’s going on.

“Sorry,” Hannah begins, leaning deeper into the room. Her voice is low, and her gaze keeps darting back over her shoulder. “I know lunch isn’t over, but Raph is making the rounds in the office, _now_.”

Miriam curses. Dean frowns. “He alone?”

Hannah shakes her head. “There’s a new guy in tow.”

Inias turns to Miriam, brows raising in a _See? Told you_ manner.

Miriam drops her head back, loudly proclaiming, “Shit.” She then rallies, asking, “Wait, Han, d’you know anything about him?” Since she works on the communal floor with the rest of client services, Hannah tends to be better connected with the other projects than Dean and the rest of legacy combined.

Hannah shrugs. “Not much. Benjamin heard his brother is a friend of Raph’s.”

“Perfect,” Miriam hisses. “Product of nepotism.”

“Fuck,” Dean agrees.

“Have you met him?” Inias asks. “Does he seem at all like he knows what he’s doing?”

Hannah tips her head side to side, a gesture they all recognize as meaning she’s trying to find a nice way to say something terrible.

“He’s… quiet,” Hannah finishes lamely.

“Great,” Miriam drawls. She balls up her lunch bag and tosses it at the trash bin on the way out the door. “T-minus twenty to an incoming dud.”

Dean sighs, wishing he didn’t agree so wholeheartedly.

* * *

Once upstairs, Miriam and Inias escape to their cubicles, leaving Dean on his own route back to his desk.

His office is nothing spectacular—a square room along the side wall, with a view into the legacy works floor and not much else—but it’s more privacy than he was allowed when he first started here, downstairs in the pit with the rest of the help desk. A natural talent for debugging client issues led to Dean’s transfer into QA, and when he grew bored of testing the legacy system, he managed to eke out a self-trained transfer into dev that has held for the past five years.

All that’s left for Dean to do is move his management skills into a management role—system analyst—and the corporate ladder should roll out at his feet like a red carpet. Nothing left to do after that but to accept promotions as he climbs.

Except apparently Raphael doesn’t think Dean’s ready for it yet.

It’s fine. It’s cool. The hustle just ain’t over. The mantra manages to wipe the worst of Dean’s misery off his face.

Dean stops at the watering hole to grab a coffee, mostly because he sees Anael is busy doing the same. If Hannah is their best connection to the other projects, then Anael is their best source for gossip on upper management.

“So, who’s the new guy?” Dean asks, voice low as he pulls a mug from the cupboard.

Anael glances up, looking unimpressed by Dean’s ham-fisted segue. She follows his gaze out to the cubicle floor, where Raphael and the new guy are slowly working their way through each desk. She snorts in answer, her focus returning to the creamer she dollops into her coffee. “Castiel Novak, B.E. Worked at a law firm before being poached by Raphael.”

“He was a lawyer?” Dean perks up, thinking of his brother, taking classes out in California. A lawyer on the team wouldn’t be so bad. They tended to have the skills needed in a good analyst—namely, persistence and the ability to argue.

Anael’s nose wrinkles. “Paralegal, I heard.”

The brief light in Dean’s eyes flickers out. “So no experience in analysis.”

“Nope. But if Raph was looking for a lackey…” Anael trails off ominously, leaving Dean to fill in the blanks.

“Great,” Dean grumbles. He frowns out at Raphael and the new guy, who are handing out a stack of stapled papers as they talk with each member of Dean’s team. His brow furrows further when he notices Anael has a booklet already wedged underneath her arm.

“What’s with the homework assignment?” he asks, finger wagging at the paper.

“C’mon, Dean,” Anael chides, tossing her stir-stick into the trash. “You know Raph. We’re each getting ‘action items’ to fulfill, in the aftermath of Bart’s transfer. ‘Everything is an opportunity’ and what have you.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Like we don’t have enough overhead already,” he says, to which Anael nods her agreement.

“Be careful how loudly you say that,” Anael says airily. “Good luck,” she adds, as she departs for her cubicle, her coffee cup in hand.

Dean raises his cup after her, wishing the luck wasn’t so desperately needed.

* * *

Dean barely has enough time to sit behind his desk before Raphael is knocking at his door, a calculated corporate smile already plastered on his face. The new SA comes up behind him, looking studious.

Raphael is his usual demeanor—two parts over-serious, one part stuck permanently networking—but with the new guy, Dean can’t get as good a read. Maybe it’s first day nerves, or maybe the guy just naturally serves a solid bitchface, but the new hire’s expression remains stormy and inscrutable even as he encroaches on Dean’s space.

“Dean,” Raphael says, open palm extended forward. “This is Castiel Novak, your new system analyst.” He gestures with his other hand toward the man standing behind him. “Castiel, this is Dean Winchester, head of development on our legacy system.”

Dean stands to meet Raphael’s handshake, then turns to offer his hand to Castiel.

“Good to meet you,” Castiel says, hand gripping Dean’s firmly.

“Sure.” Brusquely, Dean nods. His fist pumps from Castiel’s efforts.

“Just wanted to stop by,” Raphael says. “See how the project is coming.”

“Everything’s moving forward,” Dean says. He’s certain his boss, Adler, attests to as much in the weekly department heads meetings. No point in conflicting with that assumption now.

“Good, good.” Raphael glances surreptitiously around Dean’s tiny office, clearly angling for a subject for further small talk. Dean eyes the stack of booklets tightly held by Castiel and wonders when exactly he’ll be receiving his copy.

“Your brother, he’s doing well?”

Dean blinks, tracing Raphael’s attention back to the framed photo on the corner of his desk, and smiles at the sight of Sam and Eileen grinning out at him from behind the brass and glass. But Dean knows the question is perfunctory, so he curbs his earnestness and answers simply, “Just fine, thank you for asking.”

“Good,” Raphael says. A moment hangs, awkward and endless, before he speaks again. “Well, I won’t keep you if you’re busy. Dean, I’m sure I can count on you to catch Castiel here up to speed on the legacy system.”

“Of course,” Dean answers. The smile he gives feels brittle, crunched underfoot one too many times.

“Thanks, Dean.” Raphael flashes an expensive grin and promptly chases his cue to exit.

As Raphael departs, Dean notices Castiel looking at him square-on for the first time since shaking hands. His attention is so focused, Dean feels almost caught out, like he’s being judged for doing something inappropriate.

Weighed down by tension, Dean gestures weakly at the stack of papers. “Any chance one of those has my name on it?”

Frowning, Castiel glances down at the top booklet. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he begins flipping quickly through the remainder. “I don’t see one.”

Dean fights back a groan. He shakes his head. “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it.”

“Should I ask Raphael if…?”

“It’s fine,” Dean insists. “I was kidding.”

“Oh.” Impossibly, Castiel’s expression somehow darkens. “I see.”

“Cas?” Raphael says, standing by the next cubicle he’s assuredly here to visit.

Castiel exchanges one final glance with Dean before leaving his office. Dean smiles politely after him, more so that Raphael might see him doing it than for any measure of goodwill.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean mutters once he’s alone, dropping back into the chair at his desk.

Why’d Raphael have to go with a fresh hire? The new guy’s too stiff, and has too big of shoes to fill. As far as first impressions go, Dean’s sure been left wanting. He just can’t see the guy handling the position with any measure of success.

* * *

Once Raphael has departed, and Castiel has tucked himself away in his new office, and the floor is blessedly free of upper management, Dean forays out onto the cubicle floor to clock how his troops are doing.

“What’s with the booklets?” Dean asks Miriam, leaning against a side wall of her cubicle with his now-cold coffee in hand.

Miriam leans back in her chair and swivels to face him, her chin already propped up on her fist, expression unimpressed. With her other hand, she lazily flicks the booklet at Dean. The paper crumples as he catches it, the booklet’s orderly pages knocked akimbo from its flight through the air.

“Raph’s trying to trick us into admitting time theft and occupational redundancy,” Miriam says simply, as Dean pushes his coffee mug into an elbow and begins flipping through the pages. “There’s a shitton of questions to answer, and a second set of timesheets for us to fill in. I’m assuming it’s for him to compare against our digital records, looking for errors.”

Dean curses. He sees the section Miriam’s referencing, a month’s worth of weekly timesheets printed out, each day broken down into fifteen minute increments. _Fifteen_. Just so Raph knows how often they stand up and grab a coffee, apparently. Or so he can gather evidence that the company is wasting time maintaining legacy, as he likely already suspects.

Near the back of the booklet, Dean finds a half-dozen pages with blocks of text and blank lines scrawled out beneath them. Dean reads through the first few questions being asked of his team, subtle inquiries testing the answerer’s opinions on resources needed for upkeep in the legacy project next year.

His temperature rises the deeper Dean reads into it, his blood beginning to boil.

“He’s not poaching you,” Dean says in a rush. “Not you, or Inias, or Anael. Or Hannah,” he adds belatedly, although she works in the pit downstairs, and it wouldn’t be possible for her to overhear and be offended.

Miriam hums agreeably, sitting slouched and unresponsive, twisting back and forth in her rolling chair. “Nothing like scaling legacy back to bare-bones to encourage another project reshuffling. You’d think stealing Bart was enough, but nope.”

Dean shuts the booklet and tosses it to her desk. “No wonder I didn’t get a copy.” Raphael knew he’d flip out, seeing the plan to decommission legacy laid out so openly bare.

Miriam nods, looking around at the empty cubicles surrounding her. The specter of stolen jobs looms between them both.

“Anyways,” she says, brightening, “back to work. Don’t want to write you up as ‘chit-chatting frivolously’ in my fifteen minute block, boss.”

“At ease,” Dean agrees, flagging two fingers out in mock-salute.

On his way back to his office, Dean sidesteps over to the coffee cubhole and pitches the dregs of his cold mug into the sink. As he’s pouring a fresh cup of coffee, he looks out across the cubicles to where Castiel is hidden away in his office, the door closed, blinds partly shuttered.

First day and the guy isn’t even feigning an attempt at social niceties. Dean harrumphs to himself; if Castiel knew even half of what was needed in a good system analyst, he’d be out here asking questions of the team instead of relying on the results of Raph’s misguided questionnaire.

Dean adjusts his mental calendar for the month, updating the point where Castiel’s mettle has been proven to a couple weeks sooner than his previous estimate.

Too bad the guy’s a dud, but the legacy project has survived worse. Dean can push down the disappointment of his failed promotion enough that it won’t distract him from his duties.

Dean will batten down the hatches and ensure his team weathers the shitstorm coming their way.


	2. CYCLE TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What about you?” Sam asks. “New guy getting any better?”
> 
> Dean snorts, his grimace hidden by how his head is stuffed into the fridge instead of in front of the screen. “Guy can’t stop bugging me over messaging. He keeps blowing up my phone with stupid questions. S’bad enough I had to silence his contact after office hours.”
> 
> “That’s a good thing though, right?” Sam asks. “I mean, that he’s even asking questions. It shows he’s trying to learn, which is more than Bart ever bothered to do.”

The first week passes with a minimal number of defects being logged as a result of legacy’s latest reshuffling. Dean reviews the bugs Hannah has reported and divvies them out between Inias and himself, leaving Miriam free to handle an update unexpectedly added to their schedule by the implementations team.

Of the defects Dean keeps for himself, he assigns only the lowest priority ones to Castiel, hoping a couple easy bugs might help cut his teeth on analysis work. It shouldn’t take the guy more than half an hour to find an answer for each, on a good day, but with the training wheels currently left on his timelines, Dean expects it’ll occupy Castiel well into tomorrow.

Truth be told, Dean has kept on almost all the SA duties while Castiel continues to get acclimated. The guy seems barely to have a handle on the names and team positions of his coworkers, let alone what all is expected of him as their SA. Dean’s not about to jeopardize Inias or Miriam’s work by short-circuiting the new guy with an infodump containing exactly what all his job _actually_ entails.

The guy has some kind of aversion to socializing, too, judging by how infrequently he leaves his office foxhole to join them on the battlefield. Castiel’s engagement with the team is at a bare minimum most days, averaging scarcely more than the occasional one-word response to any conversation he gets sucked into en route to refilling his coffee. Otherwise, he seems content to scurry back to his hiding place, his time better spent plucking away at his computer than, y’know, actually _talking_ to the people who could teach him how to do his job in the first place.

Not that Dean’s actually getting away from him unscathed. Oh no—it turns out Castiel’s socialization style with Dean is reserved exclusively for their workplace’s messenger application. He doles out the barrage of his beginner questions over hours and hours of messages instead of as brief head-to-heads in either of their offices, which are situated, conveniently, less than a stone’s throw apart.

Every time the messenger app pings, Dean finds his irritation unfairly flaring, an ugly pressure building up inside of his chest in retaliation to Castiel’s latest line of inquiry. There’s just always another _question_ or _comment_ on the function of the legacy project: what they do and how the system works; what kind of information Castiel will need to gather in order to keep dev working on their update requests; what analysis he’ll need to provide to help QA keep their maintenance operations running smoothly.

Dean isn’t one for turning off message notifications—if his team needs anything, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing to help them—but Castiel’s endless curiosity has him seriously reconsidering this rule of thumb.

As if on cue, a melodic chime goes off in Dean’s peripheral. Freshly-learned instincts have Dean looking to the app for a new message from Castiel, even as old muscle memory has him reaching for his ringing desk phone instead.

“Winchester here,” Dean answers, pinning the receiver against his shoulder.

“Hey, Dean-o.” Bart’s voice is puddle-deep and beaming, ready to schmooze far too early in the day. “How’ve you been? Listen, I’ve been trying to get ahold of your new SA, but something doesn’t seem to be working. Is his extension set up in the system wrong? He’s not showing up in the address book.”

Dean sighs. His eyes roll up to the ceiling. “Yeah, he’s spelled _‘-iel’_ , not _‘-eel’_ like the book has him entered. And yeah, IT knows. They’re working on it.”

“Of course, of course,” Bart agrees, chuckling way too heartily. “Always happens with a reshuffling, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” Dean says cautiously. “I can give you his extension, though,” he adds, reciting off the four digits in rapid succession, seeing how he’s already had to repeatedly advise the other teams to reach out to Castiel at his desk.

“Perfect,” Bart chimes. “I’ll forward you my old contacts with products and implementations. You’ll set him up for me, right? Walk him through all the usual procedures?”

Drawn frowns. “You can’t just call the number I gave you?”

Bart laughs loudly, even though what Dean said really isn’t funny. “Thanks, Dean, I appreciate it.”

The line goes dead before Dean can manage a reply.

Dean sits quietly for a moment, his eyes screwed shut, teeth gritted. He counts back from ten twice to regain his cool, and even then he bites his cheeks in an attempt to muffle the shout he wants to scream out about Bart’s latest request.

He curses on reflex when his messenger app chimes once again.

* * *

A couple days later, the stars must align, because Castiel comes out of his office around the same time that Dean is refilling his coffee at the cubby on the cubicle floor. Dean catches sight of his office opening from the corner of his eye, and it’s such a rare occasion that he almost calls Castiel out on it in front of everyone. Only a last-instant impulse stops him, figuring it might be too mean a move to pull on the guy just yet.

Lost in his musing, Dean nearly misses Castiel’s approach behind him; save for the slightest flutter of his clothes, Castiel is as quiet as a ghost when he walks.

Even so, when Dean turns around he isn’t expecting the guy to be so _close_ —there’s barely an inch between them, Dean damn near staring cross-eyed into Castiel’s unblinking blue eyes.

Dean’s heart lurches at the proximity.

One step forward and he could stomp down on Castiel’s toes.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says, taking back the lone step allocated between him and the cupboards. He adds, not unkindly, “You ever heard of personal space?”

“Oh.” Castiel’s gaze drops to his coffee mug, cupped gently between both of his hands—huge hands, by the looks of it. The cup is dwarfed by them. There’s some kind of bug drawn on the side of it; only the cartoonish outline of wings peeks out between Castiel’s fingers. “Sorry,” he adds, smokey and low, as he sidesteps toward the coffee.

His cheeks look pink, his tie askew. Dean vaguely wants to tug on the tie to straighten it out. He feels like he ought to be putting in a call to some kind of cryptid society, marking down the rare occasion of Castiel being seen outside his office.

“S’fine.” Dean leans back against the cupboard, offside from the carafe of coffee. He watches as Castiel rinses out his mug and prepares a cup of hot water. “Not a coffee guy?”

“I am,” Castiel says, gaze evading Dean, “but in the afternoon I try to lower my caffeine intake with tea.”

Dean hums, rubbing his lip over the chipped rim of his mug before he takes another sip. “Not sure that leafy shit is worth the time it takes to brew.”

“As opposed to that ‘brown sludge shit’ you’re drinking?” Castiel raises a brow.

Dean laughs. “Point taken.”

Castiel hums agreeably and rifles through the cubby’s supply of tea sachets. He seems to find what he’s looking for, retrieving a lone tea packet and tearing open its cover with his teeth. He then dunks the tea bag into his steaming mug and tosses the paper away.

A charitable part of Dean wants to keep talking to Castiel. Who knows—maybe it’ll be easier for the guy to reach out in-person if Dean shows he can be friendly. “How’ve you been handling your second week?” he asks, even as the rest of him ardently wants to kick himself for it.

Castiel doesn’t seem to notice his internal conflict, thankfully. He turns to his tea mug, thoughtful, as he swirls the doused bag on its string. Dean can see that a cartoon bee has been scribbled onto the side of it, with dots for eyes and a smiley face, peering out beneath a jaunty cowboy hat.

Dean hasn’t seen that mug around the office before. It must be a personal one Castiel has brought in from home.

“It’s been… overwhelming,” Castiel says eventually. He breathes out roughly on an elongated exhale.

In spite of himself, Dean smiles. “No way. Can’t imagine how that’s happened.”

Castiel hums agreeably again. “At my last position, everything was methodical. Structured. It was sort of how Raphael sold me on applying here.”

“You’re not finding it structured?” Dean asks, surprised. Legacy works might not be the most organized or well-funded of all the projects, but their corner of the system has its own predictable ebb and flow.

“Not exactly.” Setting his mug onto the cupboard, Castiel raises his hands. Dean catches sight of trim, pink cuticles before his fingers fan loosely apart.

With his eyes closed, Castiel carves out a piece of the air in front of him. “The shape of the system is there. I can feel it. I just can’t see it yet.” His hands float briefly, then drop. His eyes reopen, focusing back on Dean.

Dean blinks, recovering himself with a couple pointed sips from his coffee. “Gotta say, you’re a little weird, man.”

Castiel’s expression scarcely shifts, save for a twitch at the corner of his mouth that wrinkles the corners of his eyes. Dean wouldn’t have caught the change if he weren’t watching for it. It’s… kind of cute, all things considered.

“I’ve heard that before,” Castiel says simply, returning to his tea.

The spell broken, Dean finally looks away.

“Yeah, well,” Dean coughs out, uncertain where he’s going with it. The guy’s clearly given him an out here. Lamely, he adds, “Any questions on the ‘shape’ of legacy, you know where to find me.”

His use of finger-quotes makes Castiel laugh softly. “Thank you, Dean. Everyone has promised me you are the go-to guy for the legacy system.”

Maybe Castiel means it as a compliment, but Dean’s stomach clenches with an abrupt wave of self-loathing. Sure, management might talk about Dean like he’s a crucial and valuable employee, but somehow Raph still overlooks him for promotion each and every time an upper position becomes available.

“Yeah,” Dean says woodenly. “Thanks.” He tacks on a tight smile, one that Castiel seems embarrassed to even acknowledge, judging by how he barely meets Dean’s eye before looking away.

Dean nods stiffly, hoping it’s enough of a sequitur to end his rough attempt at chitchat. He raises his mug in salute and excuses himself, cutting a shortcut through the cubicle trenches toward his office, leaving Castiel and his bee tea mug behind.

* * *

Dean’s afternoon gets bogged down by a phone call that comes out from left field: the web services project has a question about how they’re interfacing with legacy, and since Castiel’s contact information is still invalid in the address book, the project’s SA ends up reaching out to Dean instead.

“Next time, call our analyst,” Dean reminds Indra politely, reciting Castiel’s extension number for good measure, but it’s to no avail. Indra just repeats his appreciation and thanks Dean for his promise to get back to him by the end of the day.

Dean can correct Indra all he likes, but it’s not like web services or any other project really cares who they are supposed to call for information, just as long as they can get the correct answers coming in on time. After so many years of SA shake-ups happening to legacy, it sometimes feels like everyone reaches out to Dean simply because he has been here so long, and they know he can handle it; they can give him all their questions and know that Dean will answer them quicker than whoever is the fresh hire on a given day.

And really, if Dean is being honest, it’s just easier to do these things himself than to get the new SA involved. If he brought it to Castiel, he would spend more time explaining and re-explaining the problem than actually answering it. It would take too much time to distill the problem down in the hopes that Castiel might comprehend even a fraction of the history involved in determining his reply.

Realization dawning, Dean scoffs to himself. Raph might not have given Dean the title and prestige that comes with it, but he’s effectively made Dean the SA anyway.

As Dean investigates the web services request, he finds it tied into some real old segments of code, stuff that he hasn’t looked at in a year or more. He has to really dig through the function dependencies to understand it, which of course means he gets so invested in said digging that he loses track of time. By the time Dean looks up from his desktop, his eyes stinging from staring so long at the screen, it’s dark outside and on the cubicle floor.

Too late, Dean realizes he missed the cutoff at five.

The office floor is empty, the work day over.

Well, practically empty.

There’s a light on yet in one office, one that makes Dean scowl when he places its source. If he squints hard enough, he can see a mop of messy dark hair moving behind the blinds, Castiel’s head bobbing as he glances from his computer to the handwritten ( _handwritten_ ) notes he’s compiled during his training.

Huh. Guess their SA is working late as well.

A petty instinct flares up inside of Dean, telling him to keep sitting there. If he just waits it out, Castiel will concede and leave first. But a bigger part of him knows that tonight is his night to call Sam, and he’s already dangerously close to missing it (again, for the third time this month) if he isn’t careful.

Dean packs up his laptop, turns off the light in his office, and leaves without wasting a goodbye on Castiel. He just takes the elevator down to the parkade where his baby sits, waiting for him in a spot not too far from the exit. Dean checks the Impala over for scratches her neighboring drivers might have left during their five o’clock escape. But there are none, and Dean can drive home with one less worry on his mind.

The sky is fully dark, the hour well into the evening, when Dean arrives at his modest one-bedroom apartment. He tosses his keys onto an end table and kicks off his shoes, moving immediately to unpack his laptop and power it up again. He carries the device to the kitchen as it’s booting, sets it on the table. Pulls apart his tie as he elbows on the kitchen lights.

The call from Sam connects while Dean is scrounging around the cupboards for food. His fridge is full of stale takeout boxes, with only a half-case of beer and a carton of milk comprising the ingredients not presently expired.

“Hey, Bitch,” Dean says distractedly, shaking out a box of noodles into a pot of boiling water. He saves the packet of powdered sauce at the last minute, plucking it out from the roiling steam, and licks his fingers to stave off any burns he got during rescue and recovery.

“Jerk,” Sam says, sighing.

Dean looks at the screen, frowning. “You okay? You sound tired.”

Sam chuckles lightly, scrubs at his eyes. “Just this case, kicking my ass. The partners are pushing for more and more discovery to be filed.”

Dean tches. “Has the wunderkind met his match?”

“Nah, just bugging my eyes at how much shit their client got into. Trial should be a cakewalk based on the evidence alone, even if the judge admits only half of it.”

Dean hums, noncommittal, and measures out a portion of milk for his pasta sauce. There’s not much more he can ask about Sam’s day without brushing up against his duty to maintain client privileges. It’s better if his brother sets the pace about what all he wants to say.

“What about you?” Sam asks. “New guy getting any better?”

Dean snorts, his grimace hidden by how his head is stuffed into the fridge instead of in front of the screen. “Guy can’t stop bugging me over messaging. He keeps blowing up my phone with stupid questions. S’bad enough I had to silence his contact after office hours.”

“That’s a good thing though, right?” Sam asks. “I mean, that he’s even asking questions. It shows he’s trying to learn, which is more than Bart ever bothered to do.”

“Yeah...” Dean drags the word out, wincing even as he admits it. “It’s just annoying. Half his questions could be answered if he’d only just open our program and start fiddling through menus. Or if he’d just come and talk to me a couple times a day.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam has started signing his responses. Dean returns the entirety of his attention back onto the screen. “Eileen there? Give ‘er over,” he says, flagging his fingers.

The screen jostles briefly while Sam redirects the camera. The motion settles, and then Dean’s getting a beaming faceful of his soon-to-be sister-in-law.

“Hey, girl.” Dean grins, his hands moving through his welcome. “How’s life keeping you at the hospital?”

Eileen exhales sharply, her eyes rolling comically large. “You know. Always busy. I stay up half the night reviewing patient files. Sam says that I’ve forgotten how normal people sleep.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Can probably relate to what I’m going through, with all the questions you get asked by patients.”

“Maybe,” Eileen says. “Though you should check with my resident about that. I probably ask her more questions than your new guy.” She scrutinizes the screen as Dean chuckles, her expression growing tight. “Dean, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

Dean balks, his shoulders ruffling. “Not sure what you mean, Dr. Leahy. Must just be the lighting here.” Other than a low-grade headache, his usual end of day partner, he’s not feeling particularly unwell.

But then Sam appears over Eileen’s shoulder, looking bothered. It would be a funny sight, how perfectly their expressions match each other, if only they weren’t both frowning because of Dean.

“She’s right, Dean,” Sam says. “Now that I’m looking, you kinda seem a little ragged. Have you been getting enough sleep?” He pokes at the skin beneath his own eyes in emphasis, drawing his finger down.

“Psh.” Dean waves them off, glancing aside. His phone vibrates on the counter, his pasta timer going off. He catches himself as he replies, signing in addition to speaking. “I can rest after this SA reshuffling is done. But supper’s calling, so ‘scuse me for a sec.”

Dean turns off his timer and hauls ass for the stovetop, busying himself with his mac and cheese—draining the water, mixing in the sauce. Taking longer than he needs to rinse out the pot, just to wait out the worry he knows Sam and Eileen are exchanging with each other solely through signs.

When Dean returns, he routes the conversation back to them and starts hamming up his bad table manners—shoveling heaping forkfuls of violent-orange pasta into his mouth, talking and chewing with his mouth open. It’s enough that both Sam and Eileen scrunch their noses and change the subject onto his bad behavior and the funny comments it inspires.

They talk until Dean’s meal has grown cold and he has to shuttle away the leftovers into a plastic container, maybe to be eaten tomorrow, maybe to grow stale like everything else in the fridge. Dean asks how their hunt for a new apartment is going, and they ask him when he plans on having a social life again outside of work. Dean laughs, but it’s the kind of joke that hits too close to home, and makes for a sour note to end on, considering it’s not long after that they wave their goodbyes and hang up for the night.

Dean sits at the table a beat longer, feeling almost drunk in the silence that has flooded the room in his brother’s stead. He misses Sam like his own heartbeat, like he’s muffled and gone with half a continent between them. But Dean has his life, and Sam has his, and everyone’s happy. It shouldn’t matter that they don’t live close to each other anymore—in the same apartment, or the same city, the same state. They’ve made their choices. Their lives are set.

Dean opens his work’s messenger app on his phone, even though he shouldn’t. The compulsion to know what notifications he’s missing moves his hands before his head can stop them. Another stab of anger strikes when he notes that a bunch of unread pings have come in from Castiel since leaving the office. Dean won’t deign to respond to them tonight.

He then checks his work email as a distraction to the quiet, and drafts replies to a couple messages in his inbox. He can send them in the morning, when the timestamp won’t incriminate him in his workaholic ways. It’s fine. It’s a way to pass the evening productively. He doesn’t have anyone else to embrace his attention.

When he’s done, Dean drifts through his various social media accounts, playing catch-up to other people’s lives, scrolling without really thinking. Belatedly, he realizes it’s past midnight and he’s overdue for sleep.

Dean goes to bed, and drifts off with the nagging feeling he has more he ought to do before crawling in between the sheets. It’s going to take so much more time and effort to get the new guy caught up, and to have Miriam complete their unexpected update, and for Dean and Inias to patch up all the defects that just keep on endlessly coming in. But it’s going to be worth it; it has to be.

Dean just knows that when it’s all done, it will be worth it.

It has got to be worth it in the end.


	3. BLOCKER THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean catches the small, proud smile Castiel aims down at the conference table. 
> 
> His stomach burns at the sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may you never be cursed with the hubris to assume you can cobble together CSS for a chat app!!

Dean’s phone buzzes moments after entering his workplace, but he doesn’t check its notifications until he’s situated in his office, laptop plugged in, the VPN up and running, connecting him to his work desktop.

  
  
_Castiel N:_ sorry to bother you so early  
  
_Castiel N:_ I have a question about which regions are still supported by legacy  
  
_Castiel N:_ I counted at least 13 states that don’t show our functionality when I try to register in them on web services  
  
_Castiel N:_ is that a shortcoming of webserv or of us?  


Dean has to scrub his eyes and read over Castiel’s messages again, now that he’s actually paying attention to them. It’s not what he expected first thing in the morning, in the short window between booting up his laptop and fetching a fresh coffee—namely, an actually intelligent question coming in from their SA.

Is the impossible finally happening, and Castiel is actually catching on? For once, Dean doesn’t hesitate to offer a reply.

  
  
**Dean W:** it’s nobody’s shortcoming  
  
**Dean W:** it’s in our name  
  
**Dean W:** legacy == code that’s getting retired  
  
**Dean W:** those states are probably being maintained by specproj now  
  
**Dean W:** theyll be outside of our scope now  


With a brief window of time to himself, Dean reviews the emails he drafted the night before, confirming they’re still coherent in the light of day. Satisfied, he fires off his replies in quick succession, wrapping the whole exercise up shortly before another message comes in from Castiel.

  
  
_Castiel N:_ good to know, thanks  
  
_Castiel N:_ is there any documentation I can reference for what’s no longer supported by legacy  
  
_Castiel N:_?  
  
_Castiel N:_ i checked the cloud folders but there’s nothing there  


Dean snorts to himself, then leans in and starts typing.

  
  
**Dean W:** a good question  
  
**Dean W:** but it’s never been the way of legacy  
  
**Dean W:** we all just stumble through  
  
**Dean W:** and rely on what’s stuck in all of our devs n qas heads  
  
**Dean W:** :)  


His response comes quickly.

  
  
_Castiel N:_ doesn’t that put the onus of knowledge on you?  


Dean peers out his office window, trying to gauge whether he can spy on Castiel across the floor at his desk. Just so that Dean can know what kind of look is on his face as he sends such a loaded question out into the world.

  
  
**Dean W:** im not the only running this floor cas  
  
_Castiel N:_ no, of course not  
  
_Castiel N:_ I didn’t mean to imply that  
  
_Castiel N:_ but you’re definitely the one we all turn to for answers  
  
_Castiel N:_ so you carry the burden of the absent documentation  
  
_Castiel N:_ especially as team members get put onto other projects  


And yeah, maybe the guy has a point to that—Dean really does end up being the bible everyone refers to when they have questions about legacy—but in his summation Castiel is missing one crucial detail.

  
  
**Dean W:** maybe  
  
**Dean W:** but we’re legacy  
  
**Dean W:** even if we should’ve had documentation years ago, it’s too late to bother with it now  
  
**Dean W:** in another couple years we’ll be completely descoped  
  
**Dean W:** no point in polishing the brass on the titanic yknow  
  
_Castiel N:_?  
  
_Castiel N:_ descoped?  


Ah, damnit. Exhaling roughly, Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. Did nobody tell Castiel what he was signing up for when he took the job?

  
  
**Dean W:** legacy is getting decommissioned as specproj takes over  
  
**Dean W:** it’s why we’re always scrambling  
  
**Dean W:** there’s no budget for us to get more resources  
  
**Dean W:** give it 2 yrs and we’re all either on a diff proj or out of a job  
  
_Castiel N:_ hmm  
  
_Castiel N:_ well that’s… heartening...  
  
_Castiel N:_ but it’s not an excuse to do a poor job  
  
_Castiel N:_ we all have to do our part to keep things running  


Dean snorts to himself, smiling. Gotta give the guy credit; Castiel sure takes his potential layoff in stride.

  
  
**Dean W:** yeah exactly  
  
**Dean W:** doesn’t mean you wanna be the last one caught holding the door either  
  
**Dean W:** but we just do our best and hope it stands out for the bosses  
  
**Dean W:** enough to keep us on for a diff project at least  
  
**Dean W:** before the current one ends  
  
_Castiel N:_ agreed  
  
_Castiel N:_ thank you for your insight Dean  
  
_Castiel N:_ you’ve been a blessing getting my head around ‘the shape’ of things  
  
_Castiel N:_ 😊  


Dean scoffs, his face feeling warm for having read it. Who says that kind of a thing to a coworker, especially one they hardly know? Dean’s nothing special.

  
  
**Dean W:** nerd  
  
**Dean W:** and np (y) anytime  
  
_Castiel N:_ thanks 🤓  


With it, Dean minimizes the messenger app on his desktop, and for the rest of the morning he tries not to think about Castiel and his corny little smiley face replies.

* * *

Thursdays tend to be Dean’s busiest days, typically because upper management holds most of their resource meetings on Fridays. The higher-ups always want a rundown of how the ongoing projects are going, with intel summarized by the boots on the ground rather than investigated by themselves.

Once upon a time, Bart was the person handling this rundown for legacy, but with him gone from the team, the lines of custody have grown decidedly less clear.

On one such particular morning, Dean has sunk hours into fighting with what should have been a relatively easy batch of queries that are refusing to properly run. For some reason Bart sent him the queries in an email instead of as an attachment, and something in the formatting styles has gotten lost in translation. The separated strings are now all bunched together and tangled, making them impossible to run as-is.

Dean’s had to copy the whole lot into a Notepad document and fight through the apostrophes masquerading as single quotes, but so far the battle has come to no avail. As the clock ticks closer to the time the report is due, Dean’s patience shortens alongside the timeframe available.

His focus drops with a knock on the door from Inias, who rushes, uninvited, into his office. Whatever concentration Dean has managed to eke out into this query shit is promptly destroyed.

“Sorry,” Inias says, dropping a stack of papers onto Dean’s desk. “Just—there’s a question coming down from the products and implementations meeting. Raph’s wondering whether you’re planning on attending.”

“Hm.” Dean frowns at his screen a little while longer, pecking over the query he’s formatting. When he gets to the end, his frown turns to Inias. “What?”

“The P&I monthly,” Inias says. “Rachel and Anna are already up there. Raph wants to know if you’re coming too.”

Dean squint, frowning. “That’s tomorrow.”

“No,” Inias says slowly. “Tomorrow’s a new month already. Meeting’s happening today.”

“That’s not my—” Dean shakes his head. “Wait—no. I remember. P&I.”

Vaguely, Dean recalls Bart emailing him a while ago, asking him to take over the reporting required for the monthly overview. Normally, Bart compiles the numbers and sends them off to Adler, but since Bart is gone and Dean has taken on the brunt of SA, then...

Dean curses. “The meeting’s right now?”

“Yeah,” Inias says, deadpan. “ _Yeah_.”

Dean scrambles for his laptop, arrowing his cursor straight for his calendar… which hasn’t been opened yet today, for some reason. As a result, he never received the 30- and 15-minute warning pop-ups that the meeting was coming his way.

With the calendar now open, the five-minute warning pops up with a jaunty chime, its counter marking the minutes remaining to the meeting in red.

“Fuck,” Dean says again.

“What d’you need?” Inias asks, but Dean waves him away, having already returned to his inbox. He hunts out the file Bart gave him regarding the template Adler expects for the monthly overview. He hits print on the file, then hops over to a browser to run the queries and print them as-is, just hoping that he can blend together the two formats on-the-fly during the meeting.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Dean mumbles as his printer thumps and whirrs. His fingers flap fruitlessly at the output tray, as if he could hurry the report into manifesting its physical form.

One page in and with three minutes left until the meeting, Dean says screw it; even if he doesn’t have the right format to report the information, he knows legacy’s current status like the back of his hand.

Dean takes the lone page that has printed out and runs with it, breathing out a “Thanks, Inias” as he rushes across the floor for the back stairwell, figuring the elevator will take too long to call down and get him upstairs.

He takes the stairs two at a time and reaches the management floor in record speed. Dean slows his pace to a walk in the corridor approaching the meeting room, figuring he ought to stabilize his breathing, maybe towel down the sweat now beading on his brow.

But it’s too late—the meeting room door hangs open. Everyone is already sitting in brown leather chairs, waiting for him, their necks arched out as Dean comes into sight. Dean settles into a stiff gait that carries him across the finish line. His hands hang like rocks on the end of his wooden limbs.

Dean feels wrong-footed as soon as he enters the meeting room, the last one to arrive and sweaty to boot. Raphael sits at the head of the conference table. The department heads for products and implementations—Naomi and Marv, respectively—sit to either side of him. Bart is positioned next to Naomi, presumably here at Raphael’s behest to provide details regarding special projects.

All eyes are on Dean as he takes a seat between Anna and Rachel, the latter of whom arches a severe eyebrow at him, even as Anna gives him a scrunched _what can you do_ commiserating smile.

Dean offers a shaky, boyish grin to Adler, who sits across from him at the conference table, between Bart and Castiel, which—what the hell is Castiel doing here? There’s no way he’s ready to handle this kind of meeting yet.

Dean’s stomach drops. His wobbly smile falters as he finally looks at Raphael.

“Well,” Zach says, his mouth a grim line. “Now that we’re all finally here, let’s begin.” He taps his stack of papers together, his gaze pointedly turned away from Dean.

Raph calls on implementations to report their numbers first, followed by products and special projects. Then Anna reports on client services, and Rachel recites her monthly statistics regarding quality assurance as a whole.

The longer Dean sits there, listening to the other managers speak, the more he realizes he’s severely screwed up even coming to the meeting. Everyone else at the table knows what they’re going to say before they say it. They’re all actual managers, not the half-breed pseudo-leader Dean has become for his team. They all have some kind of paperwork situated in front of them; even Castiel appears to have a portfolio of some kind ready for the meeting.

Dean flattens his single sheet of paper onto the table. Somehow it looks more pathetic than if he’d brought no paperwork at all.

“Legacy,” Raphael begins, turning to Zach’s side of the conference table, “can you provide us with a breakdown regarding your product updates this month?”

Adler tucks down his chin and looks expectantly at Dean. His hands are folded together atop the polished table, thumbs tapping together.

“Sure,” Dean says, his voice thin and raspy. He goes to shuffle his paper, then realizes how stupid that looks and stops midway through the motion.

He’s not ready for this. Sure, he’s brought some numbers, but he’s had no chance yet to double-check them. What if Dean screwed up the queries as he was formatting them, and all the data he’s memorized is wrong? He’ll look like a complete idiot if he recites information that’s totally off-base from what Zach knows or what Castiel might say.

From the other side of the table, Castiel leans in, hand half-raised, looking at Raphael. “If I may?”

Raph extends a benevolent hand, so Castiel stands with his portfolio, and begins reciting his report.

Dean tries to retain what Castiel is saying about legacy, but he’s hardly listening. His hands tremble beneath the conference table. He feels like a fool, and completely unnecessary to being here. Why the hell did they want him here if Castiel was already attending?

Rachel signs off on the data stated for QA, Anna for client services, and Dean numbly does the same for legacy. Castiel wraps up his entire report with an invitation for discussion that neither Naomi nor Marv take him up on. Raph thanks him, and as he sits, Zach offers Castiel a hearty pat on the back.

Dean catches the small, proud smile Castiel aims down at the conference table.

His stomach burns at the sight.

* * *

Bart approaches Dean once the meeting has finished. He swaggers over with an insufferable grin plastered on his face, and Dean can already tell he’s going to hate what’s coming for him.

“I have to say, Dean, your first meeting flying solo seemed kind of shaky.” Bart laughs. “Are you sure you’re good without me?”

Dean narrows his mouth with a closed-lipped smile. He probably looks constipated, but it’s better than having his actual feelings on the matter slip out. Instead, Dean asks, “What’s Castiel doing here? I thought you asked me to take care of it.”

“Yes,” Bart agrees, “but Castiel emailed me last week, asking for a rundown of what all the legacy SA should take care of. I told him about the monthly production meeting, and I gave him the same queries I sent to you. Good thing too, wouldn’t you say?” he adds, winking at Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean says, even though it tastes like dust in his mouth. “Good thing.”

“Oh, Dean.” Bart claps him on the back, laughing. “Hate to say it, but I miss being on the same team as you. I sure slept better, knowing I had a hand on the ball for legacy. Who’s going to keep it from going out of bounds now?”

Dean chews the inside of his cheeks and says nothing. No matter how he wants to retaliate, there’s no point rising to Bart’s bait. Especially when Raphael and Adler have only recently left the room.

Bart wraps up his gloating, and wanders off to whatever special projects team is putting up with him these days. Dean looks around the meeting room, but Castiel must have already headed back downstairs.

Dean follows suit more slowly, leaving the room with his tail tucked between his legs. He winces at his lone sheet of paper, left stranded atop the conference table. Abruptly, he crumples it up and tosses it in the trash can.

Fat lot of good it did him anyway. Dean should have never thought he had a handle on legacy’s details.

* * *

Dean tucks himself into his office for the rest of the day and throws himself into debugging. It helps keep his mind off just how much the P&I meeting was a disaster that morning. Even so, the all-consuming nature of development is not enough to keep Dean from revisiting his fuckups every chance he gets, worrying at it like a loose tooth.

He was completely unprofessional and unprepared, and it showed—right in front of the heads of every critical department in their system. These people are the future of the company, the ones who Raphael listens to when they say they need another member on their team.

No wonder Dean is never mentioned when it comes time to hire someone. Even his former managers, Rachel and Anna, wouldn’t make eye contact with him in the end.

And Castiel looked so damn _good_ during the meeting, so much smoother than he ever seems while he putters around the office. He had an answer for everything Raphael was looking for, his fingers resting on the pulse of every system the department heads were seeking.

How could that be the same guy Dean knows from legacy, someone too antisocial to leave his office if not to refill his coffee?

As Dean types into his laptop, his fingers hit the keys a little harder than usual. He feels his same old headache building, pain crawling up the back of his neck until it thrums inside his temples. He digs around in his desk drawer for painkillers and a heartburn tablet, just something that might tamp down the acidic flare that hits him whenever he reflexively recalls the disastrous meeting.

The longer he dwells on it, the more Dean wonders: just how much of what Castiel reported was work that he took credit for? They were Bart’s queries, after all. Nothing fancy. Castiel is a glorified data entry worker, copying numbers from point A to point B. He didn’t deserve a pat on the back for _that_.

Righteousness flares hotly inside Dean. He can still turn this around. He will just get ahead of the game for tomorrow. He will close more defects and boost legacy’s numbers for the production bug report Anna compiles tomorrow. If he stays late, he can wrap up all the shit that should have been done had there not been meetings eating up his time today.

Dean will look good again once the defects are done. He can turn this around yet.

* * *

It’s late again by time Dean pulls his head out of debugging, his mind slowly dragging away from the zone where programming comes easily. He feels drunk afterward, having submerged sometime in the early afternoon only to emerge again in darkness, having completely lost track of time.

As Dean comes to, he becomes aware of the throbbing headache he’s been able to ignore up until now. He pulls open one drawer, then another. He pops open the last of his painkillers and downs two tablets with the cold dregs of his cup of coffee.

It’s over at least. Dean has gotten through both his and Inias’ outstanding production bugs lists. He closes the compiler and posts his final updates to the work order site. His latest comments on all defects advise Anael she can test them on the alpha site first thing in the morning.

As Dean wraps up, he notices the light still on in the corner office. The brightness makes his head throb alongside the revelation.

Castiel is staying late too. Of course. He can’t let Dean get ahead of anything.

Dean exhales sharply and tries not to give into anger, as he continues packing up his laptop.

On his way to emptying out his coffee, the light in the corner office switches off. By the time Dean is rinsing out his cup, Castiel has come up beside him, gaze atypically off-center from Dean himself. His hands twist the strap of his messenger bag, flexing with a nervous energy.

Castiel offers an awkward smile. “I see I’m not the only one burning the midnight oil.”

Dean huffs. He focuses on the water running into the sink in the coffee cubby, staring at the soapy rag he’s pushing around his mug. “Can’t imagine what you’re working on so late,” he says. “Seems like you were on top of everything this morning.” He switches off the tap, the sink growing quiet and still.

“Maybe.” Castiel shifts his footing. “I was working on the priority list for legacy. Bart said I could take it over from you, if that’s alright.”

Dean’s hand flexes. He sets the cup down in the drying rack more sharply than he should. “I’m fine handling it.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “It’s just—analysis work. It shouldn’t have been on your plate to begin with. Seems like the reporting never ends.” His mouth twitches with a small smile. “I noticed you didn’t stop for supper yet—or didn’t bring any with you, at least.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, wary.

“Mm.” Castiel hums. His gaze finally fixates on Dean. “Would you want to—grab something? There’s a good Vietnamese place nearby. Unless somebody is waiting for you at home.”

Irritation flares inside Dean. Is Castiel really inviting him to spend another hour together? _Voluntarily_? Christsakes. Just how badly has the guy misread their situation?

“Nah,” Dean says crisply. “And no. Gotta get home. There’s leftovers waiting, so…”

“Oh. Okay.” Castiel nods. Dean takes the opportunity to turn and leave, heading for the elevator. Castiel follows him, obedient as a golden retriever, talking as he walks. “Listen, Dean, I just wanted to say that you’ve been doing an amazing job running things in Bart’s absence. I’ve spoken to a couple SAs on other teams, and they all say that legacy is one of the best—”

Dean stops walking so abruptly, Castiel nearly bumps into him. He can’t keep the heat from entering his voice as he says, “Is this about me freezing up in front of P&I? Because I’m over it, Castiel. I screwed up. Move on.” He punches the elevator down button, his finger flexing with the force of the motion.

“I didn’t—” Castiel flounders. His hands wring his messenger bag strap. “I just wanted to say thank you. For all your hard work.”

“I bet.” Dean laughs. “Really gives you a spot to shine, huh.”

Castiel frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” The elevator dings. The doors open, but Dean does not move to enter. “One last thing. If you’re prepping the defect list for tomorrow, make sure you refresh your query before the meeting, okay? Anael should be signing off on a bunch of bugs before you’ll need to show off again.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open, but Dean does not linger to catch any more of his reaction. He pivots on his heel and heads for the back stairwell, leaving Castiel to his elevator ride in peace.

In the parking garage, Dean tosses his laptop bag roughly into the passenger seat. He drives home, fuming, his headache growing. The street lights flare with sunlike auras as they whirl by.

Stupid Castiel, thinking Dean needed to be pandered to. Treating Dean like he needed some of his patronizing encouragement to get over looking stupid in front of their bosses.

“‘ _You’ve been doing an amazing job_ ,’” Dean parrots snidely to himself, the words echoing inside his head. It’s easier to pantomime the phrase than to think about the hurt shining in Castiel’s eyes, after Dean bit back at him in response.

Because yeah, maybe Dean was kind of a dick, but Castiel showed his true colors today. No matter what he says about Dean’s work performance, actions speak louder than words, and Dean knows now that Castiel is gunning for his managerial workload.

If Dean’s not careful, he’ll lose any shot at proving to Raph and Zach that he’s a strong candidate for moving upward. He even might be made redundant before legacy’s official end.

Outside his apartment, he throws Baby roughly into park and slams off the ignition. The grouchy noise she makes has him wincing and petting her roof and side panels, apologetic, as he climbs out.

Once inside his apartment, his headache crescendos. Auras shimmer around the clock on his stove top, from the light pollution streaming in from his shuttered windows. His stomach upheaves at his attempts to find food, unwilling to smell even the stale inside of his refrigerator. Dean has no choice but to take another painkiller and swallow a partial sleeve of saltines for supper. He bunkers down in bed, the lights off, and waits for insomnia to crawl in beside the throbbing in his head.

It’s worth it, he tells himself, though it’s hard to believe in his present state.

Dean’s not going to make it easy for Castiel to get rid of him.


	4. REOPEN FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hmm? Oh. Dean.” Castiel closes the notepad. He smiles, hands together, and leans forward on to his desk. Then he looks over Dean, and his smile drops. “Is there a problem?”
> 
> Anger licks up inside Dean, igniting the fuel in his blood. “Yeah,” he says, shaky even as he tries to smooth his voice, to clear it of all emotion. “When did Bart announce this? How long has it been making its way down through the pipes?”
> 
> Castiel frowns slightly. “You didn’t know?”
> 
> Dean says, “I never heard anything about it until today.”

Monday mornings start with a weekly scrum between developers. Inias and Miriam crowd into Dean’s office, groggy-eyed and grumpy, with notepads and fresh coffee cups set down on Dean’s desk.

Dean pecks away at his laptop, pulling up work order queries for each of them. He gives feedback on the code changes they’ve both committed since the last scrum, pointing out troublesome places where bugs should be avoided and runtimes can be improved. Inias gives a breakdown of his progress through the production bug backlog; Miriam summarizes her product updates with a rough percentage complete assigned to each. Dean jots their numbers into a spreadsheet he then shares with Adler across the cloud.

It takes all of fifteen minutes to accomplish, but their schedules have the scrum booked for an entire hour. Dean lets them use the remaining time however they want, easing into their work day by lingering in his office, carrying out an extended chat about their weekends.

“So what were you up to anyway?” Miriam sinks back into one of Dean’s shitty office chairs and kicks her heels up onto his desk. Inias shuffles his chair over to relinquish more room to her sprawl.

“Nothing,” Dean says absently, fiddling with the format of their report. “You?”

“Mm.” Miriam juts her chin out at him, then takes a pointed sip from her mug. “You’re boring.”

Dean shrugs. “Inias?”

“My group got second place at trivia night Friday.”

Miriam rolls her eyes. “God. You’re boring too.”

“Shut it, Mir.” Inias tetches. “Not all of us spend our weekends drunk attending orgies.”

“I didn’t, actually.” Miriam smirks. “Not this weekend at least.” With her pinky finger outstretched, she raises her coffee and says, mock-daintily, “I got invited out by Cas.”

Dean’s hands freeze on his keyboard.

“ _What_?” Inias gasps. “You’re kidding. Did you say yes?”

Miriam scoffs. “Of course I said yes. I mean, what the fuck, right?”

Dean’s chair creaks as he swivels to face her. “No fucking way. That little nerd?”

“I know, right?” She laughs. “Hardly seemed like he knew I existed. Especially with how hard he’s been moon-eyeing over _you_.”

“What?” Dean scrunches up his nose. “No.”

“Yeah-huh,” Miriam sing-songs. “Boy’s got an office crush.”

“It’s honestly disgusting,” Inias chuckles.

“Except he asked _you_ out,” Dean points out.

“But it wasn’t about me.” Miriam drops her feet, turning in her seat. She leans conspiratorially close to Inias. “Cas just wanted to go out for dinner and ask about _Dean_ and how he could best fit in with the _wonderful work environment_ Dean’s developed for us.” She snorts into her coffee. “Worst date of my life. We didn’t even french.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Since when is he ‘Cas’?”

Miriam gives a loud groan. “You’re both so fucking awful.”

“Deserve each other,” Inias grumbles.

“ _He’s_ fucking awful,” Dean says loudly. “I’m a goddamn delight.”

“So no frenching,” Inias asks Miriam. “Does that mean you actually kissed?”

“Just Dean’s ass.” Miriam smacks her lips together, sucking loudly.

The office feels stuffy with so many people crammed inside. Dean goes to the window and opens it a crack, hoping the light breeze will cool the heat flushing his face.

“Out,” Dean snaps, pointing a finger. He turns around, repeating, “C’mon, git,” when neither dev refuses to budge. Sighing, he adds, “Don’t we have work to do?”

Miriam groans loudly about his general existence, but she drags herself to her feet. “Such workaholics, both of you. Inias is right; you deserve each other.” Miriam gathers her papers and coffee and follows Inias out the room, one middle finger angled back behind her at Dean.

Dean idly flips her off, his focus already back to his laptop. He types for another minute, but his mind keeps skipping back to their teasing, making it difficult to concentrate.

* * *

In the afternoon, Dean finds himself buried knuckles-deep overhauling an old piece of validation code when Anael storms into his office.

“What the hell is Project BEAU?” she snaps, the door rattling in its frame.

“I dunno. You tell me.” Slowly, Dean glances over from his laptop. “You couldn’t ask this in an email?”

“Apparently not,” Anael’s hands flutter as she talks, rising before they strike down, landing roughly on her hips. “Don’t give me that look. Do you even check your emails? Why haven’t you been responding?”

“I do,” Dean says mildly. “I haven’t seen anything beau-related.”

Anael drops her cutting gaze.“So there’s an email from Bart, saying we’re taking on this whole extra workload.”

“Wait, it’s from Bart?” Dean scoffs to himself. Bart's stuff automatically reroutes into a folder separate from his inbox. Even with Bart’s promotion, he hasn’t turned off that old rule yet.

Grumbling, Dean holds up a finger, signalling Anael to wait. He clicks through the directory to the buried folder, its unread notifications standing boldly in the double digits. He finds a subject line that seems aligned with Anael’s ire and reads through the email chain.

_The Business Excellence As Usual Project: a Partnership between Web Services and Legacy._

“What the fuck?” Dean asks.

“What the fuck,” Anael agrees. “Have you clicked the query link yet? There’s over fifty work orders in there. Apparently that’s just the first of three phases.”

“There’s three phases?” Dean scrolls back to the initial email, where Bart laid out paragraph after paragraph of explanations that could have been summarized in a sentence or two. “How long apiece?”

“Like, a month, maybe.”

“With whose devs? Whose QA?”

“Me. Ours!” Anael crosses to Dean’s side of the desk. She leans over his shoulder and points down at his screen. “Right there. Web services all but says that the BEAU work orders are our fault.”

“Christ,” Dean hisses. “How’re we supposed to fit this in with our current implementations? Who the fuck signed off on this?”

Anael crosses her arms. “Normally I’d say Adler, but he isn’t on the chain. And if it wasn’t you…” She jerks her head toward the doorway.

Dean’s hands tighten on his desk.

Castiel.

Cursing again, Dean pushes back his chair. “Leave it to me. I’ll find out what the fuck is going on.”

* * *

For the next hour, Dean sends out a flurry of emails gathering intel from other departments. The responses both wind him up and cool his engines in equal measures; the BEAU project is new enough that his exclusion from it can be excused. The flames of his rage settle into a low, smoldering burn, although Dean isn’t ready to extinguish them just yet.

Bart provides a cloud folder filled with hyper-polished PowerPoints that describe the benefits of the BEAU project four times over, all without actually saying anything meaningful about the day-to-day impact the project has on its members. Adler provides an even less helpful reply to Dean’s inquiry, advising him to contact Bart for details—like that wouldn’t be the first instinct Dean has while investigating this fresh shitstorm.

The project grows a little clearer once he calls Zach’s counterpart, Dumah, over in web services and gets her to provide a rundown of her perspective on BEAU. Legacy will be handling most of the development, but web services is offering up a couple of their team members to provide BEAU its QA. It’s a small miracle; Dean emails Anael advising her she’s escaped the new project unscathed.

Once he’s satisfied the project structure is coherent in his head, Dean arms up and stalks out of his office, his focus honed blade-sharp on the argument he’s about to spit.

“Hey, Dean, what’s this about a new proj—” Inias begins as he prowls past, but something about Dean’s posture makes him fall silent. Even Miriam uncharacteristically has no comment to add; she just stares at Dean, wide-eyed, as he walks by, her chair swiveling to follow the path he cuts through the cubicle floor.

Dean pauses outside Castiel’s office. His knuckles crack on the half-opened door.

“Come in,” Castiel says without looking up. He sits hunched over a yellow legal notepad, fingers flipping between its pages as he cross-compares notes that he’s made. “Have a seat.” He waves idly at a chair.

Dean stands still at the edge of Castiel’s desk. His hands are fists in the pockets of his dress slacks. “Got a couple questions about BEAU,” he says, clipped. “If you got a minute.”

“Hmm? Oh. Dean.” Castiel closes the notepad. He smiles, hands together, and leans forward on to his desk. Then he looks over Dean, and his smile drops. “Is there a problem?”

Anger licks up inside Dean, igniting the fuel in his blood. “Yeah,” he says, shaky even as he tries to smooth his voice, to clear it of all emotion. “When did Bart announce this? How long has it been making its way down through the pipes?”

Castiel frowns slightly. “You didn’t know?”

Dean says, “I never heard anything about it until today.”

“What?” Castiel has the nerve to act appalled. “Bart assured me he ran this by you already. He said you were fine with it.”

“Yeah, well, he lied.” Dean’s mouth twists.

Castiel stares down at his desk, eyes darting blankly as he thinks. “I’m sorry, Dean. I thought it was understood. Bart was moved onto special projects in order to kickstart BEAU. Raphael outlined his expectations for BEAU during my interview.”

“And what are these expectations?” Dean asks. “Dumah gave me her thoughts on it, but I’d like to hear it again from you.”

Brows drawn, Castiel looks up. “It’s a partnership between our two parts of the system. Inias and Miriam will be pulled in for development. Gail at web services will be handling QA.”

“What about me,” Dean says. “Where do I fit in.”

“You’ll handle the client-reported defects, and any of the improvement projects Miriam hasn’t completed before her move.”

Both bugs and scheduled updates? Dean can’t believe it. He’ll be handling all the dev for legacy on his own? His hands clench again, threatening to slam down on the desk. “So I’m not on the BEAU project.”

Castiel’s mouth flattens. “Only in a managerial sense.”

“Great,” Dean says bitterly, pressure building in his chest. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, scratching at his neck. “Just for future reference, you should double check these kinda things with me before signing off on them. It’s a huge lift to try and fit them into the existing schedule.”

“That’s strange,” Castiel says, “because both Bart and Adler assured me you weren’t necessary for the approval process.”

Castiel stares over Dean’s shoulder, expression empty as his words land like blows. Dean’s blood is aflame again, riling up at how Castiel is apparently above making eye contact while he slings mud onto Dean’s career.

Maybe Castiel thinks he’s above following the proper procedures for the team. Or worse, maybe he has senior approval to change these procedures in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says again, though it’s too late to even try to make amends. Dean doesn’t need any more of the pittances he’d share.

“Yeah, well, here we are,” Dean grumbles, turning toward the door. “Just include me next time. Things like this really upset the balance of the team.”

“I will,” Castiel assures him.

Dean bites back a laugh. Like he’d believe Castiel’s word after something like this.

* * *

Too soon, Dean’s pessimism is proven right.

For all his promises to involve Dean in the management of the team, Castiel sure does a shit job of upholding it. The first couple weeks of the BEAU project prove as much, seeing how often Dean’s world upends between one day and the next.

Meeting invitations fly out without forewarning, issued from Castiel or Indra, the web services’ SA. Miriam and Inias get shuttled off for hour-long discussions three times a week. Dean is not invited to any of them, or given a breakdown of the progress being made. He’s not even given reports to make or files to update with Adler; Castiel handles it all instead of him.

Defect lists are compiled and handed out without Dean first reviewing them. The bulk of project efforts are assigned to Miriam and Inias directly and signed off by Castiel, while all the existing work orders are rerouted onto Dean’s plate. Dean is stranded as the sole developer left on legacy, as promised, with his responsibilities to the BEAU project stripped paper-thin.

It’s all Castiel who’s controlling the current direction for legacy; Dean’s just holding what’s left of their old, dead weight. Whatever “managerial” role he has in BEAU is total bullshit, just a lie Castiel fed him to make Dean more complacent in getting phased out from the team.

Dean doubts Castiel even knows enough about legacy to be advising on BEAU. It hardly feels like he’s been here more than a month, although he has. Regardless, it seems like Adler is more than happy to believe Castiel is handling legacy like an old pro, despite what practical efforts might have to say about that.

( _“You worry too much, you know that?” Zach chuckled, on one of the many (many) calls Dean had made about his concerns for the project at hand. “Dumah’s thrilled to see things are finally getting fixed between our two projects. And Castiel seems to be handling it fine.”_

_“Sure,” Dean said, except he doesn’t know that. He wasn’t involved in the first place. “I just think—”_

_“Nobody’s upset about this except you, Dean,” Zach interrupted, patronizing._

_Dean shut his mouth after that, and kept his complaints to himself._ )

So this is happening. Dean can deal with it. He can take on the work of two devs and keep his mouth shut about the weight of that workload. He can suck it up and just stand by while he’s excluded from the course his team is charting. He can be the last one left on the abattoir floor.

But then Dean starts getting stripped out of the email exchanges between legacy and web services.

At first, it’s infrequent enough that Dean tries convincing himself it’s nothing. But then the BEAU bulk emailing group is updated, and Dean’s been dropped out of it by someone with admin privileges. He can only guess whether that means Adler or Bart.

The feeling that he’s getting phased out grows stronger with each passing day.

It wouldn’t be so bad if his devs hadn’t stopped coming to him with their questions. Miriam and Inias now reroute most of their issues into emails with Castiel.

Or meetings with Castiel. In person. The three of them in Castiel’s office, laughter coming in muffled from behind closed doors.

On one such day, when the hour slotted for a BEAU meeting enters into its third hour, and Miriam and Inias and _Cas_ are taking more time than they should need to go over their stupid fixes, Dean gives up waiting to talk to them and heads home early instead.

The whole drive home, he’s bogged down thinking about how much the team has changed lately. Is he imagining it? What will happen after the first phase of BEAU is over? What about once the entirety of BEAU is done? Will Miriam and Inias even be coming back onto the legacy team? Or will Dean be stuck handling legacy’s day-to-day all alone?

“Are you sure you’re not being paranoid?” Sam asks, not unkindly, during the impromptu video call Dean places once he gets home.

“Yeah,” Dean says, hands fidgeting, mouth dry. He can’t bring himself to say any more.

Sam’s expression shifts, some of the judgment draining out from his features. “Dean, everything you’ve told me about this job sounds like they love you. Even if there’s a shiny, new project you aren’t on—yet—I doubt they’d try to get rid of you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says again, dully.

They chat idly a little while longer, but with no comforts found or reassurances obtained, they hang up shortly after.

A miserable note sings around Dean all throughout the evening, poisoning his every attempt to take his mind off the worries of the day. He gets ready for bed with fear still gnawing on them, and brushes his teeth too hard before spitting into the sink. He’s helpless, and he hates himself for being helpless, for allowing what has happened to his team.

“Fuck this,” Dean growls into the mirror, staring down his reflection with sharp loathing in his eyes. He slaps some cold water onto his cheeks and roughly towels down.

Like hell is he going to take this lying down.


	5. PROJECT FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean,” Inias says, nudging his shoulder until Dean shoots upright at his desk. He blinks off whatever nap he’d been accidentally taking, and waves away Inias when he insists, “You should go home, man. You need to be in bed.”
> 
> “I’m fine,” Dean says crossly. Rubbing his eyes, he asks, softer, “What do you need?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a shorty, so let's sneak it in now and have another update on Monday~

It’s easy enough to do, once he gets into it. Dean might have been removed from the BEAU mailing lists, but Bart never revoked his access to the project’s directory in the cloud.

Within the nested folders for the BEAU project, Dean finds a document outlining the initial estimates for effort on each of its three phases. The document makes reference to another file location, and in it Dean finds the defect list for the upcoming phases two and three.

Which is perfect. BEAU may only be a couple weeks into phase one, but it’s not like they can stop Dean from secretly jump-starting round two ahead of schedule. He just has to make a new code branch to hide his suggested fixes. If all goes well, he’ll add comments to the work orders advising Inias and Miriam how to fix them. Even better, he could merge down the code branch once phase one is all said and done.

All Dean has to do is stay a couple hours longer after work each night. If he does that, he’ll stay on top of both his work for legacy, and the dev analysis of phase two and three. It’ll shave a good month off the project, easy, having the development handed to them on a silver platter. Then Castiel and Adler will see how stupid they were to exclude Dean from BEAU in the first place.

For the two weeks left on phase one, Dean spends every spare moment on the upcoming two phases. Between client bugs and the implementations team’s latest work orders, his spare time is not enough to make real progress, so Dean locks himself in his office for long stretches at a time, dedicating his lunch hour to phase two and his evenings to two and three.

“Aren’t you gonna sit with us for lunch?” Miriam asks, after she catches Dean scurrying his sandwich from the break room fridge straight back to his office. She pins her hands to each side of the door frame, like she can physically block him from closing his office door.

“Sorry, Mir,” Dean says, nudging her back until she’s out on the cubicle floor. “Talk to you once BEAU is done.”

He sees her mouth gape open the moment before he shuts his office door.

It’s fine, really. She and Inias are already busy in meetings with Castiel. It’s not like they’re missing each other much. This kind of thing happens when people get put onto different projects. Still, Dean is looking forward to the day when BEAU is done, and Inias and Miriam can be brought back into the legacy fold.

Dean doesn’t let his routine headaches slow him down, not even when they stop responding to the painkillers he’s chugging throughout the day like clockwork. And when the throbbing pain behind his eyes and in his neck is accompanied by a runny nose, he doesn’t let it bother him. He just eats more oranges and takes a couple medications for staving off colds, which make him drowsy but they seem to be enough to keep the worst of his sniffles at bay.

“Dean,” Inias says, nudging his shoulder until Dean shoots upright at his desk. He blinks off whatever nap he’d been accidentally taking, and waves away Inias when he insists, “You should go home, man. You need to be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says crossly. Rubbing his eyes, he asks, softer, “What do you need?”

Inias stares at him a while longer, brows furrowed, tilted upright with concern. “Um. There were a couple non-BEAU defects assigned to me by Castiel. I’m wondering if that’s a mistake, or if he’s trying to—”

“Give ‘em to me.” Dean glances over the keysmash paragraph his nap added to the code, and backs out all changes until he is back at square zero again. “They should be on my plate. I’ll handle them.”

“Alright,” Inias says dubiously, and once again Dean is left to work in his office alone.

Dean’s fine. Really. He doesn’t need to stand for his coworker’s running commentary on his health, or their attempts to intercede in what feels like a senseless crime, Dean staying at work with the sniffles.

Somebody even has the gall to start leaving care packages on his desk when he’s not there. He arrives in the morning to find cough drops and emergen-c stacked neatly atop his mousepad, and sometimes even a thermos filled with chicken soup appears with them, barely lukewarm by the time Dean deigns, hours later, to acknowledge the gifts being made.

He almost feels bad having to throw it away, pouring the soup down the sink at the end of day. Still, Dean leaves the thermos in the dry rack by the sink, knowing wearily that it will be back, freshly filled, on his desk the day after next.

Sam and Eileen start nagging him during their once a week video calls, too, accusing him of looking pale and ragged, even when the connection is shit and making the footage look grainier than it is.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dean insists loudly, interjecting himself into their latest argument that he slow the fuck down.

“Take some time off, Dean. Please.” Sam puts on his best puppy-dog eyes, which are still highly effective even through a low framerate feed.

Christ, Sammy, lay off,” Dean grumbles, crossing his arms. “It’s just a runny nose.”

“How many sick days do you get?”

“Not enough, and I’m not wasting them on _this_.” Dean flaps his hands uselessly. “I’m the only one holding up legacy right now. Nobody’s maintaining it if I’m not there. I just have to tough it out. Maybe I’ll take some time when this whole BEAU project is done.”

“Right, because you can just reschedule your health crises for later,” Eileen says, sarcastic.

Dean rolls his eyes and holds up both middle fingers. “Please tell me you can at least see _that_.”

Excuses, excuses, and they all know it. Dean hangs up the call later with their worried faces etched into his mind.

It’s just exhaustion. Dean knows it. He can’t keep this pace up forever.

But so long as he can keep it up for the short term, he can loosen the reins later. Things can go back to the way they were before BEAU and Castiel ever stepped foot into his life.

Dean tells himself this enough times, he’s actually starting to believe it.

* * *

It’s when his runny nose starts sneezing, and his headaches are joined by a wet, racking cough, that things start going sideways. At least, Dean would like to blame feeling like shit for the stupid thing that comes his way.

Out of the blue, Dean gets an email from Bart one morning that has nothing to do with the BEAU project. The email has been forwarded from the resource integration team, and as Dean reads it he feels all the blood drain from his face.

The body of the message is simple enough: _Hey Dean, can you sign off on the above estimate for decommissioning legacy? Is there anything else you can think of we should include before we forward it to the client?_

In the email attachment, Dean finds a step-by-step breakdown of how the RI team will integrate what remains of legacy into the rest of the current system, replacing legacy with one of their newer projects building a similar routine. There are pages and pages of action items, each with columns filled with developer commentary breaking down precisely how the conversion from legacy into the system at large will go.

Dean curses. He knew this day was coming, but holy shit. It hurts way more than he thought it would, seeing all his efforts discarded like this. That another team has already neatly laid out how they’ll fold Dean’s responsibilities into their own.

When Dean searches back through Bart’s email chain, he scours the carbon-copied addresses for one particular name. After confirming its presence, he then scrolls back through the email history, searching for which date, precisely, Castiel knew that legacy was getting chopped.

Turns out It was a full two weeks before Dean was brought in.

Two weeks.

Two _weeks_. BEAU’s phase one isn’t even over, and the guy has known the whole time that the project’s progress is scheduled to be scrapped.

“Fucking asshole,” Dean murmurs, storming out of his office before he can dwell too deeply on what he’s doing. He crosses the cubicle floor in prowling strides, gaze fixated on Castiel’s office and its stupid fucking closed door.

Dean raps his knuckles on the door frame, then pushes his way in without waiting for a reply. “You _knew_ legacy was getting decommissioned? And you didn’t _say_ anything to me?”

Alarmed, Castiel looks up to find Dean already crossed to his side of the desk. “Dean, are you okay? You look pale.”

Dean leans in closer, towering over where Castiel sits. “Yeah, because _legacy is getting decommissioned and you didn’t say anything to me._ ”

Castiel blinks. “I thought you knew this was coming. You said as much to me.”

“Yeah, but—” Dean waves his hand around, grasping. “It’s one thing to say it and another to hear it! Why wouldn’t you bring this to me or the team? Does Inias know? Does Miriam? Just who all knows that this goddamn BEAU project—”

“Dean—”

“—is a _complete waste of time_ , because RI is gonna replace it all _anyways_?”

“Dean.” Castiel stands quickly, pushing Dean out of his space. “I can see you’re angry—”

“Damn right! How dense d’you have to be not to see the problem here?”

Sternly, Castiel says, “I’m doing the job they hired me to do.”

“So, what, be a fucking idiot?” Dean scoffs. “This is bullshit. We’re painting the walls while the roof falls down!”

“ _Winchester_.”

As much as he hates to do it, Dean shuts his mouth. Head pounding, he fights to contain the cough crawling up his throat.

Castiel pushes a hand through his hair, ruffling it. He exhales sharply, then says, calm, “Maybe you should go home. Get some rest.” He touches Dean’s elbow, directing him toward the door. “You’re clearly tired.”

Dean grouses, “There’s better excuses to get rid of me.”

Castiel frowns. “What do you mean?”

Dean snorts. “It’s okay, bud. I get it. You got the job and I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle my own shit or that I’m not a damn good employee. Just leave me to do my thing and you do yours, and when the dust has settled you can phase me out to a different team like you clearly seem to want to.”

“What?” Castiel gapes. “But that’s not—I wouldn’t—”

“Sure, _Cas_ ,” Dean spits. “You’re _clearly_ jumping at every chance to include me.”

“Dean,” Castiel calls after him, but Dean just marches out the door.

The walk back to his office clears his vision enough for him to see all the heads popping over their cubicles to spy on him, post-yelling match. It feels shitty, having all eyes on him, but he can’t take it back now. Not without becoming more spineless than he already has been, all these weeks with BEAU holding the reins.

Dean hides away the rest of the day in his office, door closed. He tells himself the sweat and fever he’s feeling is just because of how worked up Castiel has made him. That it’s not guilt that drives him forward, pushing him to edit Adler’s monthly meeting notes until it’s dark outside and his cough is making sparks fly in his vision.

Dean can fix this latest mess. He can ride it out.

He just needs to put his head down for a minute and then he’ll be fine.


	6. HOTFIX SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the ignition. “Now, where do you live?”
> 
> “That way,” Dean slurs, waving his arm in a wide arc.
> 
> “Okay,” Castiel deadpans. “That’s not going to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for Cas POV 🎉

It has been hours since the work day officially ended, and Dean has still not left his office.

Not that Castiel has been avidly watching. Of course not. But for hours his door has remained shut, the light yet visible through its shuttered blinds, and Castiel cannot wait any longer for him to come out; his stomach rumbles ravenously, anticipating supper, and his back complains of a long day spent sitting at his crowded desk.

For once, Castiel’s nerves outweigh his end of day exhaustion, and he’s strangely geared up for what he’s about to do. The apology he intends to make has weighed heavily on him since he resolved to give it.

The transition into becoming legacy’s analyst has gone more smoothly than expected, considering the disastrous exit he experienced at his last job. Castiel couldn’t handle another miserable position on his long string of botched employment, but SA work is straightforward enough: look at a problem and ensure the correct answer is obtained for the developers to continue their work. But Raphael never said during his interview that he would have so much _management_ associated with the support title.

Every opportunity that Castiel has dared broach the subject, Bart assures him that he’s not actual management, and that he answers only to systems management, or occasionally to Adler, should a developer’s opinion be required. The rest of his team—the QA and developers, even _Dean_ —is only required to give feedback when a question from management should be raised. Castiel doesn’t need to bother his team with the decisions Bart or Raphael make, he merely advises them when Bart says it’s officially time to change course.

But the edict doesn’t sit right with Castiel, no matter how many times Bart repeats it. Upper management does not check in with the teams on the day to day level; they don’t see the skills shown by legacy’s members. They don’t see Dean, especially.

Dean.

Castiel wrings his hands, thinking again of the problem of Dean.

Things would be easier if only Castiel was better at being an actual, human person. He’s tried talking to Dean, but in every attempt Dean has shown such _distaste_ for Castiel, leaving their options for communication rather slim. So Castiel keeps an eye from afar, trying to keep as much management worries off Dean’s plate. He watches the timesheets being logged, trying to determine how much of Dean’s day is overburdened by too many defects. But Dean’s time entries have been annoyingly spotty, the overtime hours he’s _certainly_ spent in his office remaining suspiciously absent from his timesheets.

Dean might be stubborn and self-sacrificing and hotheaded, but he’s also clever and caring and _loyal_. Warmth blooms in Castiel’s chest as he thinks on this, how Dean is more deserving of a managing role in legacy than Castiel will ever be. But Bart has spoken out on the subject repeatedly, each time with deeper disdain: Dean is a solid programmer, but he shouldn’t be bothered by anything beyond routine development. The bigger decisions need only be handled by Bart and Raphael.

The choice to leave Dean in the dark seems to Castiel like a costly mistake. If only Bart would listen to him… but Castiel is little more than a liaison between Bart and legacy. A systems analyst is no substitute for the management role Adler should be playing.

Castiel packs up his laptop with shaking hands. He has kept busy on urgent priorities regarding the monthly production meeting, but half his mind has been keyed all day on the sour note he left on earlier with Dean. His ears ring with the memory of Dean’s wrath, how stupid he thinks Castiel must be. And Castiel doesn’t blame him for it, not in the least; he deserves harsh words and more for how poorly legacy has been led.

As badly as he wishes he could blame Bart for his leadership not working out, what Castiel feels most like right now is a failure. He _is_ a failure, because he has no idea how to make his best employee realize his own value and importance to the team.

He knows how Dean has been staying late daily, despite Castiel’s best efforts to re-route production defects onto Inias’ plate. It is inconvenient, but Castiel will wait him out now, and catch Dean as soon as he steps out of his office at the end of the day.

Castiel has thought it out. He will keep it quick. Offer a few short words of apology and praise that hopefully won’t upset Dean. He won’t reveal to Dean how important it is that he believes him, when Castiel says that he is irreplaceable. That mountain can be climbed another day.

But as the hours tick on and Dean’s office light is still left on, Castiel is ready to call his plan another crippling disappointment—if Dean doesn’t want to see him, and is in fact waiting for _him_ to leave, then Castiel will have to let Dean win this round.

Castiel will approach him instead of waiting for the chance to ambush him. Even if it’s more terrifying, Castiel can take the first step toward making amends.

His fingers tremble as he turns off his office light. He walks on wooden legs across the cubicle floor, stopping by the coffee cubby to grab his thermos from the drying rack.

Castiel swallows thickly around the trepidation he feels, now that he is knocking at Dean’s door.

A soft rap, and no answer.

Castiel knocks harder, but there is no answer still.

Castiel inches towards the panel glass window. He peers between the thin slivers of blinds until he can see a shape hunched over the far side of the desk. Dean, his head down.

Inhaling deeply, Castiel makes the decision to enter Dean’s private workspace.

It turns out to be the right choice.

Dean is here, at his desk. Asleep, apparently, or passed out. His face is typing a long, incoherent passage into whatever document is open on his laptop.

“Oh, no,” Castiel mumbles, quickly crossing the room. “Dean? _Dean_.”

Dean rouses slightly when Castiel lifts him by his shoulders, pushing him until he is upright in his chair. He checks for breath and pulse, finds both shallow and quick. Dean’s face is flushed, his skin damp, his freckles muted and muddied by the ruddy hue on his cheeks.

A hand on Dean’s forehead has Castiel cursing. “You’re _warm_.”

“Qui’ it,” Dean mumbles, swatting haphazardly at the hand touching his face.

“You’re sick,” Castiel tells him, hauling Dean up onto his feet. “Here, put on your jacket. I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“‘m fine. It’s just the Benadryl. Makes me drowsy.” He paws at Castiel, pushing him away. As if to show how ‘fine’ he is, Dean grabs his jacket and foists it on, his arms swinging wide as he pulls them through the sleeves. He finishes the task, albeit it with a crooked collar, and his shirtsleeves bunched up uncomfortably at the elbows. Castiel reaches for them, but Dean is on the move before he can manage to help straighten them.

“See? Fine.” Dean thumps uselessly at his laptop, slamming it shut too forcefully and then almost dropping it on its trek into his messenger bag.

“Let me.” Castiel steps in and tucks the laptop away single-handedly, his other moving to grip Dean’s arm, steadying him. Dean doesn’t look any better, now that he’s moving; Castiel can’t let him leave alone like this.

“Need to finish my notes,” Dean says, belated, as Castiel drags them and their belongings towards the elevator. “Presentation tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well,” Castiel says, “I doubt you’ll be going.”

“Need to,” Dean mumbles. He rubs at his face, the corners his mouth downturned. “Fucked up the last time at P&I.”

Castiel’s mouth twists with sympathy, the memory of Dean’s surprise and nerves having haunted him since it became clear Bart never told Dean that Castiel would be attending. It seems both he and Dean get struck by anxiety when it comes to crucial moments. “You can work on it from home. The file is in the cloud.”

“A cloud?” Dean asks hopefully.

“Not an actual cloud, Dean, you know that. Now come on, step into the elevator.”

Dean hums, but seems otherwise unconvinced by the direction they’re taking.

Down in the parking garage, Dean pushes uselessly at Castiel’s grip again, refusing to allow Castiel to hold him upright as he walks. Castiel keeps him close regardless. He leads them to his small blue rental car, but Dean appears to have other ideas. He drags them off-angle, toward a long black car that seems too huge to be crouched in such a small parking space.

“Lemme drive,” Dean says. A key ring appears, jangling around his finger.

“Oh no, no way.” Castiel swipes at the keys and pulls them away. “I can take you home.”

Dean groans and jostles him, pushing too roughly. His body is pressed distractingly tight against Castiel’s.

“Give ‘em back,” Dean says, but Castiel puts distance between them by pushing Dean into the passenger side of his blue compact. Dean keeps mumbling complaints as Castiel buckles him in before shutting the door.

Castiel climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the ignition. “Now, where do you live?”

“That way,” Dean slurs, waving his arm in a wide arc.

“Okay,” Castiel deadpans. “That’s not going to work.”

He ponders it a moment, then says decisively, “I’m going to check you over at my house and then decide whether you need the hospital. Is that okay, Dean?”

Castiel waits for an answer, but Dean is already dozing in his seat, his chin tucked down against his chest.

“Oh.” Castiel cannot help the fond grin that blooms, seeing Dean asleep, a small frown line carved between his brows.

“I guess that settles it,” he murmurs to himself.

He pushes the car into drive.

* * *

What vigor Dean showed in the office has all but evaporated by time they reach Castiel’s apartment. Dean has gone from belligerent at being touched to slumping bodily against Castiel.

The faint mumblings of his hatred for Benadryl are cute; the coughing he expels straight into Castiel’s shirt collar are not.

Once the front door is keyed open, Castiel pushes Dean down the hall straight into his bedroom, and leaves him there with a hurried promise that he will return. Castiel fills a glass with cool water and forces Dean to drain it twice. Two tablets of ibuprofen are swallowed before Dean is allowed to slump back onto the bed.

With a quick phone search, Castiel verifies that Dean must be dying, that his persistent refusal to stand upright is a symptom of a terminal disease that is only surfacing now. Typing the rest of Dean’s symptoms into the search bar confirms nothing but his worst fears thrice over. Castiel’s hands start shaking with nerves.

He shuts his eyes and breathes in sharply, reminding himself not to panic. A thermometer reading says Dean’s temperature is not dangerously overwarm, and his cough is not life-threatening. Castiel settles on reviewing medical websites for suggestions about when to seek hospital intervention, and closes his phone only once he’s memorized which vital signs must worsen before Dean should be taken to the emergency room.

“The presentation,” Dean mumbles, hands hovering in the air above a phantom keyboard. He coughs wetly and his hands drop like rocks, spreading lush over his belly.

“Mm-hmm.” Castiel digs through his dresser, looking for casual wear that might fit Dean’s narrower hips and taller frame. The pair of gray pyjama pants he finds is a bit ratty, but the dark t-shirt is well-worn and has no holes in it. He drops the folded set onto the foot of the bed, and then returns from the ensuite bathroom with a cool damp cloth in hand. “Change your clothes,” Castiel says, “and then put this on your forehead. It will help.”

Dean grimaces, but he obliges only to the second half of the request, unfolding the cloth and draping it over his brow and cheeks. His bottom lip pouts out from beneath the cloth’s hem, damp and plush and terribly tempting.

“That’s not what you—okay then.” Castiel tugs gently on Dean’s pant leg, drawing back his attention. “You’ll change into those pyjamas, right? You can get yourself into bed?”

Dean makes a wavering hand gesture Castiel chooses to interpret as agreement. He shuts the bedroom door and gives Dean privacy to change.

Back in the living room, Castiel positions himself on the sofa with his laptop open. He pulls up the files last modified by Dean in the shared cloud and starts scanning the more recent of the two, looking for the point where its contents stop making sense.

“Dean?” he calls down the hall. “Are you asleep yet?” There’s a burble of muffled consciousness in response, so Castiel continues, “Which queries were you referencing for your P&I data points? They look different from mine.”

The answer he receives is an even less coherent noise. Castiel carries his laptop with him and repeats his question through the door, to which Dean blearily responds:

“Cas, is your bed just one giant pillow?”

Frowning, Castiel pushes open the door to find Dean sprawled out on the bed on his belly, his face buried in the crevice between both fluffy pillows. His arm is draped over the side of the bed, his hands running futilely over the spanse of blue comforter.

“Can’t find where the sheet ends,” Dean says, muffled. “Looked for the edge, but I couldn’t find it.”

“Dean,” Castiel says fondly. “Come on. Roll onto that side. Okay, good. Now roll back.” He tucks the comforter up around Dean’s chin. “Good?”

Despite his frown, Dean nods.

“Good.” Castiel picks up the damp cloth from where it fell and deposits it into the ensuite sink. After some finagling with the lighting—bedside lamp on, overhead off—Castiel situates himself in a chair offside from his bed. “Is it okay that I work here for a bit?” If Dean is this far out of it, some chaperoning in the short term might be worthwhile.

Dean mumbles something in a pleasant tone. Castiel assumes it is a yes.

Sighing, Castiel plunks himself down in the chair in the corner, the one he drapes his clothes over when he intends to wear them another day. Thank god the place isn’t more of a mess; he wasn’t expecting company.

Castiel straightens his laptop and searches for the number to the nurse’s helpline. As he adds it to his contact list, the late hour on his phone screen flashes up, and he groans at the sight of it. It’s going to take him an hour yet to clean up Dean’s bungled meeting documents. Castiel may as well settle in for a while

Groaning, Castiel stretches his neck from side to side, then bunkers down fully into his laptop, determined to handle the meeting alone now that he’s certain he’ll be down a partner tomorrow.

It’s not until Dean’s soft snores come in a consistent rhythm that Castiel decides the coast is clear, and he can pack up for the night. He takes his laptop and a set of work clothes for the morning with him, plus a few toiletries that he’ll need from the ensuite. He briefly hovers by the bedside lamp before he goes, looking over Dean with a hand outstretched to the switch.

Dean seems restful, the frown line between his brows finally smoothed, his breaths coming in soft bursts between gently parted lips. His pallor is better too, his eyelashes dark against his cheek, his freckles standing out in sharp relief. Castiel finally feels confident he can leave Dean on his own until the morning.

“Goodnight,” Castiel whispers, turning off the light.

A faint groan greets him from the dark, before the door shuts behind him. Castiel gives a small wave back, not knowing whether Dean is even watching. Just hoping some small comfort might be offered by the gesture.

* * *

It’s an ungodly hour by time Castiel falls asleep on the couch, and even then he gets so little sleep that when he wakes, he doubts he can keep his eyes open for the entire drive into work. Worse still, he also overslept, thanks to his now-dead phone failing to set its alarm off, its charger stranded in the bedroom.

Small blessings mean he doesn’t wait to wake up naturally, but is instead roused by a racket banging in the kitchen beyond the sofa.

By time Castiel blinks his eyes awake, Dean has struggled his way through several cabinets, the doors hanging open in his wake. A lone hand sticks out from the blue comforter swaddled tightly around him, the blanket tucked up around Dean’s neck and swooped over his head.

Castiel yawns through asking, “Can I help you find something?” and the vowels stretch out like warm taffy. He forces himself to stand before he can second guess the benefit of fully waking for the day.

The hand has gone from banging cabinets to rummaging through drawers. “M’ coffee maker,” Dean mumbles, squinting through mostly-closed eyes. “‘S not where I remember putting it.”

Briefly, Castiel is distracted by how Dean’s sandy hair hangs down on his forehead. “Around the breakfast bar,” he blurts. “Back corner.” Castiel grabs a coffee pod from the cabinet, then pauses and collects a tea bag. “You shouldn’t be drinking caffeine right now anyway. I’ll make you an herbal tea, but you can’t have it until you’re back in bed.”

Dean’s nose scrunches. “Leafy shit.”

“I know. But it’s that or water.”

“‘M not going to bed. I gotta go to work. There’s...” Dean trails off, frowning. “There’s the...”

“Presentation,” Castiel supplies.

“Yeah. Presentation.”

“For what, Dean?” Castiel asks keenly.

“For the… presents…”

“Yeah, no,” Castiel says, tugging on a handful of comforter. “Back to bed.”

Dean keeps mumbling complaints, demanding in a limp voice that he should be going to work too, while Castiel makes several trips between the ensuite and kitchen, changing his clothes in one trip, bringing back a steaming cup of tea with him on the next. He brushes his teeth and pulls a comb through his hair a few times before deeming the gesture to be useless; he’ll just have to go into the office with a terrible case of sofa-bedhead.

“Will you be okay here alone?” Castiel asks, scribbling a note for Dean before gathering his laptop bag. But Dean is already back in bed, asleep. Castiel can’t even be sure when Dean drifted off again.

He pauses on the cusp of leaving, his heart skipping as he savors the sight of Dean nestled peacefully in his bed. Castiel shouldn’t feel so happy, knowing Dean feels so unwell. But the reprieve from their constant battles is brightly uplifting, and Castiel ends up smiling helplessly the entire route of his morning drive.

Maybe Castiel has a chance to make things right between them yet.


	7. BREAKPOINT SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you even better?” Let me feel your forehead.” Castiel reaches out his hand.
> 
> Dean angles back, just a little. “You don’t have a thermometer for that?”
> 
> “Don’t worry,” Castiel says. “I’m very good at estimating temperatures.”

When Dean wakes up, his chronic headache is gone. For the first time in days, he hasn’t woken sore and strained, his heartbeat driving a dull throbbing behind his eyes.

Dean savors the feeling for a moment, burying his face into the pillows and breathing in deep. The fabric smells different, for some reason. Not his usual brand of softener. Stranger yet, there’s the spicy tang of a cologne Dean doesn’t recognize beneath it, one that has him nuzzling the sheets for a deeper hit of the scent.

The sheets are wrong, too. Softer, maybe, with a higher thread count, in shades of cream and blue. There are also less pillows. A lighter comforter. Dean almost misses the comforting weight of his blankets at home, but the smell of these sheets abates it somewhat.

As he wakes, Dean lifts his head and blearily surveys the room. His gaze lands on the nightstand, where a bottle of ibuprofen stands starkly against and bottles upon bottles of water. Dean’s tongue turns to sandpaper at the sight of them, so he grabs a water and cracks it open, draining half of it before he pops open the ibuprofen and takes two out of habit. His headache might be gone, but his rapidly-refilling sinuses warn that his cold hasn’t left him yet.

The bedroom is not one he recognizes anymore than the bedding. Clothes hang on a freestanding closet next to a dresser. A darkened doorway angles into what Dean assumes is an ensuite bathroom. An overstuffed armchair, draped with dark trousers, sits in the corner next to the bathroom.

On the wall above the chair is a bulletin board with drawings pinned haphazardly across it. The artistic talent of the lot definitely skews toward childish, with blocky stick figures smiling beneath chunky letters proclaiming _Thank You Mr. Novak!_

Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed, and relinquishes his grip on the blue comforter when he spies a bathrobe nearby, fluffy and freshly washed, that he pulls on to keep warm. He ties the knot loosely around his stomach and, stuffing a water bottle into the robe’s pocket for good measure, goes to see where the door leads beyond the hallway.

The hall exits into a modest living room, with a couch and armchair and a flatscreen TV. The sky through the window behind the television is dark, suggesting early evening or shortly after sunrise; Dean assumes it is the former, since the jetlag fogging his head feels like he’s slept through an entire day.

A couple pillows are stacked at the foot of the sofa, resting atop a blanket that has been folded messily into squares. Behind the sofa lies a breakfast bar with two chairs tucked beneath it, beyond which is a modest-sized kitchen, furnished in dark metallic shades.

The sole reason that panic has not set in yet is that a rich, brothy scent wafts out from an indeterminable source, delectable even through Dean’s stuffy nose. He beelines straight for the fridge, his stomach rumbling at the mere suggestion of finding food. But as soon as he crosses the breakfast bar, he pauses, caught by the multitude of gift baskets overflowing the lower countertops.

Not only are there gift baskets, but there are _flower bouquets_ tucked between the crinkly, plastic-wrapped wicker. It all screams hospital stay in a way that spikes Dean’s dread regarding where he’s been lately.

“What the…” Dean flips the card over on a flower arrangement and finds a note in Hannah’s handwriting, her loopy cursive proclaiming _Feel better soon Dean!_ The basket beside it is filled with beef jerky and a family-sized bag of peanut M&Ms, courtesy of Miriam and Inias, per the card he finds buried in its depths. Even Anael, of all people, has sent him a modest bouquet of orange tulips and yellow lilies.

How did these gifts even reach him? Dean doesn’t even know where he’s currently staying. Frowning, Dean heads back into the bedroom, searching for clues to his whereabouts. He pushes around water bottles until he finds a piece of paper pinned beneath an emptied glass.

The note reads:

_Dean, please don’t worry. You have not been kidnapped! I found you sick and didn’t know who to call._

_I will be at work today but will come home right away to check on you. There’s soup in the slow cooker, and I put tea out on top of the coffee maker. You have my work and cell number if you need help finding anything._

_Feel better, and see you soon — Cas_

Dean frowns down at the paper. He’s staying at Castiel’s?

Reviewing the room with fresh eyes, Dean snags on small details he glanced over before. Things like the collection of striped blue ties hanging on the back on the door, several of which Dean has noticed around the office. Or the photo on the far nightstand of Castiel standing beside two men Dean assumes are his siblings, judging by the shapes of their noses and jaw lines.

Why would Castiel bring him to his apartment to recover? The guy hates him—well, no, Dean wouldn’t say Castiel _hates_ him, but it’s not like they’ve been on friendly terms as of late.

Oh god. Dean winces at the thought of their final argument, how his temper got too far out of hand. In five years of employment—hell, in a year having _Bart_ as his SA—Dean’s never let himself get so far out of control.

What is it about Castiel that brings out the worst in him?

The note mentioned a slow cooker, so back in the kitchen, Dean hunts out the source of the scent urging on his growling stomach. He lifts the lid to the pot and gets hit in the face with a steamy cloud of air spiced with herbs. But more than that… Dean recognizes the smell of this recipe. He’s been receiving a portion of it in a banged-up thermos several times a week.

Castiel was the one bringing him soup to work each day?

Dean shuts the lid, feeling queasy. Why would the guy be doing something like that for Dean, especially when they don’t get along?

That question brings with it several more, like—why did Castiel volunteer to look out for him, bringing Dean into his home to recover? It’s not like their office has a great health plan, sure, but Cas could’ve easily dumped him at a hospital and be done with it, leaving Dean to whatever bills his dumb ass incurred for being reckless with his cold.

If he hates Dean, why would he be so generous? More troubling: if their situations were reversed, would Dean have done the same?

Dean doesn’t have long to dwell on it before he hears keys jangling in the front door. He swings around, pulling his bathrobe tight around him, to find Castiel bumping his way into the kitchen, his arms laden with yet another plastic-wrapped gift basket, this one three times the size of the other baskets combined.

“Oh, hi,” Castiel says, peering around the basket. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“You—there’s more of them,” Dean says, more out of shock than anything. “Was there a sale or something?”

“These? No.” Castiel sets his messenger bag on the floor, then focuses on making space on the counter for the latest basket arrival. “Legacy sent most of the gifts yesterday—turns out they wanted to commemorate your first actual sick day. But this one is from Adler and the rest of management. I believe Anael guilted them into choosing it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean blurts. He rifles through the contents of the newest basket, which is filled with French cheeses and chocolates and pasta, and packets of crackers and dipping pretzels. A bottle of wine sits nestled between jars of pasta sauce and flavored olives.

Dean whistles sharply. “Fuck, this is fancy.” He selects a bag of crackers and tears into it, devouring them by the handful.

“Have you eaten?” Castiel asks. “There’s soup in the—”

“Slow cooker, yeah. Your note said as much.” Dean coughs around a mouthful of crackers. “I’ve been awake maybe 20 minutes. I haven’t eaten shit.”

Castiel gestures for the living room. “Take a seat. I’ll dish out a couple mugs.”

Dean opts to stay in the kitchen and pulls out a chair along the breakfast bar, where the baskets are within arm’s reach and he can keep picking through them, seeking out the note cards in the get-well flowers. The rest are from his old co-workers, scattered between the help desk and QA. One bouquet of red gerberas and purple asters is addressed to Castiel instead of him.

“Why’s this one yours?”

Castiel blinks. “Um.” He buys time by reviewing the bouquet in question. “The office felt I deserved ‘a goddamn prize’ for convincing you to stay in bed for two days. Even when I pointed out that it wasn’t that difficult, and you did all the work.”

Dean snorts at the finger-quotes Castiel makes as he speaks, knowing that the idea and the sentiment behind it likely came from Miriam. He then sobers quickly. “Wait, two days?”

“Mm-hmm.” Castiel sets a steaming mug of soup in front of Dean, with a spoon beside it. “I said that already.”

“I’ve slept through _two_ days?”

Castiel frowns. “Is that a problem?”

Dean gapes like a fish, grasping for words. “Just—the presentation! The P&I meeting—”

“I handled it,” Castiel says calmly, sipping from his mug.

Dean scoffs. “Of course you did. Not like I’m needed these days.”

“I respectfully disagree. Everybody misses you, Dean.” Castiel pauses, staring pensively into his soup. “Even knowing that I’d see you at the end of the day wasn’t much comfort. It’s not the same when you’re not there.”

Dean rolls his eyes. How does Castiel not see what’s happening to him? No point beating around the bush. “They’re phasing me out, Cas.”

Castiel frowns, back straightening. “What? Who said that?”

“No one needs to say it. Just look at BEAU, and Bart’s email about decommissioning legacy.” Dean waves his spoon around, adding, “They’ve got you and Mir and Inias on the shiny new project, and I’m sitting in the corner, holding all the leftovers while you guys—”

“Bart has changed legacy’s end date three times over email,” Castiel says bluntly, cutting off Dean. “When he couldn’t give me a straight answer why, I raised my concerns to Raphael, who advised that board approval for decommissioning legacy is still a long way out yet. As for BEAU,” he adds, growing heated, “that project has a shelf life of two months, maximum, before Miriam and Inias return to legacy. You’re not being phased out or replaced.”

Dean sits still for a beat, stunned, as he absorbs the news. Haltingly, he says, “They’re not getting rid of me?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Never. They hardly know what to do without you.” His fingers tap agitatedly against the mug. “You said Bart emailed you?”

“About the end of legacy? Yeah.”

Castiel scoffs. “And here I thought the whole point of having an analyst is to allow you developers to work without worrying about big-picture decision-making.” He faces Dean forthright and says, firm, “If Bart was bothering you about decommissioning legacy—something even Michael hasn’t signed off on, by the way—then he was overstepping his bounds by a mile.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. That Bart would try to circumvent analyst approval isn’t surprising—treating corporate speculation the same as actual board decisions was kind of Bart’s old MO. But that Dean actually forgot what Bart was like, that he allowed himself to believe the end to legacy had come and left him all alone...

Quietly, Castiel adds, “You’re the heart of the team, Dean. I don’t know why you think we wouldn’t need you.” Then, bitter: “Or why I’ve let you believe that for this long.”

Dean’s breath clings tight in his chest, refusing to come out. He wasn’t expecting such baldfaced sincerity from Castiel, especially after the blow-up Dean had at him only a few days ago.

“I’m not the heart of anything,” Dean mumbles, picking up his mug. It’s the closest he can get to accepting the frankness of Castiel’s sentiment.

Castiel’s mouth twists with a sad smile, but he otherwise busies himself with his soup as well.

The steam from his mug manages to unstuff Dean’s nose, and the longer he eats, the better he appreciates the true flavor of the soup. He tips the mug back into his mouth, and uses his spoon to drag out the last dregs of potato and chicken in it. “Is this homemade?”

Castiel looks up. “Yes. Why?”

“Nothing.” Dean’s brows lift, mouth twisting, impressed. “Just didn’t take you for a guy who cooks.”

Castiel laughs softly. “Don’t get excited. I can only make the same three dishes over and over again.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, this is... really good. Thank you for bringing it. Uh—before.”

Castiel nods but doesn’t acknowledge the compliment any further than that. “More?” he asks, standing. When Dean shakes his head, Castiel cleans up both mugs, running the tap over both before dropping them into the sink. He wipes his hand on a towel, then lifts his head. “Tea?”

Dean doesn’t have it in him to refuse the gesture. “Sure,” he says weakly. Even if it hardly compares to the kindness Castiel has already shown him, he can force himself to take a couple sips as a measure of good faith.

* * *

Once Castiel has packed away the leftovers from supper, he and Dean retire to separate ends of the couch in the living room, both of them sitting with their laptops opened in front of them.

Dean makes a beeline for his work inbox, reviewing the emails that have come in over the past two days. He asks Castiel a few questions based on what he’s reading, but Castiel assures him that it’s all been looked after. There’s nothing for Dean to worry about for the time being, which is weirdly both the same and completely different than Dean has ever been.

When Dean opens the desktop version of the app he uses for calling Sam, he’s hit with a barrage of chat notifications streaming in—all of them with Sam’s name attached.

Eyes widening, Dean paws at his chest and hips for a device that isn’t there. “Hey.” He nudges Castiel with his foot. “My phone. Is it charged somewhere?”

Castiel’s attention drifts slowly away from his screen. “Hm? Oh. It’s here.”

“Where here? D’you have my charger?”

“Mm. Phone’s in the bedroom. Charger’s in the bag.” Castiel reaches over the sofa arm, retrieving his messenger bag. Dean jumps up to collect his phone while Cas fishes through the bag, returning by time he’s withdrawn a bundled cord from the main pocket. “I picked this up from your desk today. I hope it’s the right charger.”

“Thanks.” Dean unravels the cord and uses it to plug his phone into his laptop. It’s a moment before it has enough life to turn back on. When it does, it likewise boots up with a scrolling list of notifications coming in from several chat apps, plus the chat app he and Sam use for calls.

Dean quickly calculates out the day of the week. He curses. “I missed a video call from my brother,” he explains when Castiel alerts on his swearing. He starts typing out an explanation text for Sam, when his laptop screen lights up with an abrupt message indicating an incoming call.

“Fuck,” Dean says unceremoniously, and hits accept on the call.

Sam starts tearing into him the second the call connects. “What the hell, Dean? First you miss chat night, then I have to find out from a _call from your office_ that you’re sick? That you haven’t been there for _two days_?”

Dean scrunches his face up. “Who’d you talk to?”

“I dunno, somebody on your floor?” Sam says. “He made it sound like you’ve had pneumonia for a while.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad. Just a cold.” Dean coughs noisily on command. “See? Inias probably exaggerated.”

From the other side of the sofa, Castiel shifts uncomfortably.

Sam’s expression narrows, looking beyond Dean. “Who’s couch is that? It’s too tasteful to be yours.”

“Hey, it could so be mine! But it just so happens I’m staying at a... friend’s. Until I feel better.”

“Not Miriam’s,” Sam surmises.

“No. Actually…” As casually as he can muster, Dean mumbles, “I’m at Cas’ right now.”

“Cas? As in new-coworker Castiel?” Sam scoffs. “Dude, I thought you hated—”

“ _Say hi, Cas_ ,” Dean says loudly, angling the laptop toward him. Castiel looks up and gives a small wave, which is cut off as Dean rights the laptop again. “See? It’s not a big deal. He just happened to be the one who found me passed out at work.”

“ _Passed out_?”

“I said it’s fine!”

“Turn me back to Castiel. I want to talk to him. We should have _introductions_ ,” Sam shouts, so there’s no hope Castiel won’t overhear.

Dean narrows his eyes. Over the top of his laptop, he raises his brows in question. Castiel responds with a shrug and sets aside his computer, seeming calm, though his wide eyes suggest a nervousness undeserved for what the conversation will likely involve. Dean tries to reassure him with a confident motion of his chin, right before he turns the laptop Castiel’s way.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, sounding grave, as usual, his deep tenor reverberating in his chest.

“Hi. Wow. I recognize your voice!” Sam chuckles, awkward. “So you’re the one who’s got Dean socializing outside of office hours?”

“Well, insofar as communicating with me can be considered ‘socializing’, yes.”

Sam laughs. He asks a couple questions about Dean (“I’m right here!”) and then jumps into exchanging pleasantries, covering the usual small talk that comes up between strangers. Dean tolerates it for a couple minutes before he forcibly turns the laptop camera back onto himself. “You’re leaving me out,” he complains, his glare angled toward Sam and Castiel alike.

Castiel chuckles, eyes crinkled, his smile growing fond as he quiets. When Dean looks back to the screen, he finds Sam shrewdly watching him as well.

“Huh,” Sam says.

“What?” Dean asks, sharp.

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing.” But his smile says something else.

Dean knows this kind of nothing. With a thousand miles between them, he retaliates the only way he can.

He slams the laptop shut, abruptly ending the call.

“‘Scuse me,” he says to Castiel, summoning a cough for extra emphasis, and hauls the laptop into the bedroom with the door closed. He perches on the bed and counts down the time it should take for Sam to feel contrite, and then reopens his laptop and reconnects the call.

Sam bursts onto the line, speaking before Dean can end the call again. “It’s nothing! I swear. I’m just glad you got someone in the city watching out for you. I kind of worried, since I moved... It’s been a while since you’ve had friends.”

“He’s not—” Dean scrubs his face. “Okay. Yeah. I’m lucky.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “The way you spoke about him before, I thought he hated you.”

“Me too.” Dean pauses, working over what he’ll say next. “Maybe I’ve been kind of a dick to him.”

“Maybe.” Wryly, Sam adds, “You know ‘em better than I do.”

Dean snorts. “Good one, thanks,” he grumbles, his fingers tapping out a rhythm against the laptop. Sam waits patiently for him to speak again. “It’s just—I yelled at him. Last time we talked. At the office. And he still…” Dean scratches his neck. “It’s weird that he’s being nice to me after that, right?”

Sam’s expression turns thoughtful. “Maybe. Depends what he’s normally like. I mean, he’s better than Bart, you said. From the sounds of it, you guys started off on the wrong foot.”

“What? No, we didn’t.”

Sam’s mouth flattens. “You were mad at him for getting the job—”

“Was not,” Dean lies.

“—which I get, but still. Like the song says, it’s never too late to start all over again, right?”

“Don’t you dare use Steppenwolf against me,” Dean growls, a knee-jerk threat.

Sam chuckles. “My point remains. It could be time for a mulligan. Who knows, maybe this time you guys will get along.”

“Right,” Dean agrees woodenly. Except he feels like that isn’t true at all.

* * *

Castiel knocks on the door not long later, stopping by to check how Dean is feeling.

“Throat’s scratchy,” Dean tells him. “Kinda expect it after talking to Sammy for so long, though.”

“I can get you cough drops.”

“Nah, s’alright. I can—Cas, c’mon, no—”

Despite Dean’s protests, Castiel digs through the neat boxes of supplies in his bathroom, searching until he finds a fresh package of cough drops. He deposits the drops alongside the worrying number of water bottles collected on the nightstand.

“Do you mind if I…?” Castiel points towards the dresser, so Dean waves him on. Belatedly, as Castiel moves efficiently through the drawers and the closet hangers, picking out a fresh set of work clothes, Dean realizes he’s no longer wearing the clothes he wore at work.

Dean frowns down at the thin t-shirt, tugging at the hemline. “When did I…?”

“The first night,” Castiel says in a rush. He takes a deep breath. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t involved in the, uh”—his hand makes a funny gesture, his mouth set in a grim line—“undressing. You took care of that yourself.”

“Um. Thanks.” Dean picks at a hangnail. “Can’t imagine it was easy, considering how out of it I was.”

“Like herding cats,” Castiel mumbles.

Dean chuckles, head shaking. He can’t even begin to guess how embarrassed he ought to be right now.

He thinks that might be the end of their interaction, but when Castiel gets to the doorway, slacks and shirt folded over one arm, he pauses, his back turned. His free hand drums nervously along the door frame. “I’m not sure how you’ll take this,” he begins. “But I’ve been meaning to say it for a while.”

Dean readjusts, sitting up straighter against the headboard. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” Castiel turns around, though his gaze drags along the floor, hanging far from reach. “Dean, I’m sorry for what’s happened with the BEAU project. I thought I was doing a good thing by highlighting your strengths as a manager.” Swallowing, he glances up. “I miscalculated how deeply it would affect you. That you weren’t involved on the ground level of development. The team layout decisions might have come from above me, but I should have pushed harder against them.”

“Yeah. It—” Dean’s throat bobs. “It sucks. But I shouldn’t’ve freaked out and jumped to conclusions. The SA before you sucked, and I kinda forgot what it was like to have someone else handle that job instead of me.” A dry sound escapes him, some weak approximation of a chuckle. “Maybe this is why they never consider me for promotions. I just can’t give up control.”

Castiel smiles faintly. “You are uniquely qualified to both manage and develop.” He drifts closer to Dean, taking a seat in the clothes-covered chair. “It’s unfortunate that Raphael doesn’t see your full capabilities yet.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. Or maybe Raph really does see what potential Dean has, and doesn’t believe in him anyway.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. He looks around the room, eyes landing on Castiel, his languid pose, reclining in the cluttered armchair. He actually looks…soft, now that he’s finally let go of some of his nerves. His broad shoulders slope in gentle lines. His hands look huge on the arms of the chair.

Dean’s attention floats upwards, landing on the kid-drawings again. “Who gave you those?” he asks, pointing to the bulletin board.

“Hm?” Castiel glances behind him, his neck and jawline now exposed. “Oh. My children.”

Dean’s blood turns to ice. His eyes bug out. “Your—children?”

Castiel catches his reaction and, surprisingly, laughs. “Students. Back when I was still teaching.”

Frowning, Dean asks, “I thought you were a paralegal.”

“Before then. Back when I was still using my degree.”

“Oh.” Dean thinks over their first introductions. “Here I was thinking your degree was in Engineering. Were you a teacher for long?”

Castiel shakes his head. “A couple years. It was a private school. Catholic. It didn’t last long.”

“And you didn’t go somewhere else?”

Castiel shrugs, his shoulders tightening. “It’s hard getting placements when you’re…” He gestures to whatever seems to be the problem, which ends up being the entirety of himself. “After I was let go, my brothers pulled some strings to get me hired at the law office.” His flattened smile turns brittle. “Not exactly an esteemed career history here.”

Dean tetches. “I worked at a car dealership before I started here. Jumped ship between a couple other minimum wage jobs before I fluked out and landed in the help desk pit for our company.”

“You were a mechanic?” Castiel’s eyes brighten, and stars above, they’re blue.

“I wish.” Dean grimaces. “Would’ve stayed if I was, but they stuck me behind a sales desk. Spent my days hawking cars to people who weren’t exactly keen on buying.”

“I could see how it’d work out,” Castiel says, smiling. “You’re very charming.”

Dean’s face warms with the compliment. “Can be. But sometimes I can be a real dick.” He tugs at a loose thread on the comforter, twisting the strand between his fingers. His voice falters, but he manages to mumble, “Should’ve maybe been nicer to you. Back when you were starting out. It’s not your fault they hired you over me ”

“Maybe,” Castiel agrees, light and careful. “But it’s challenging, handling all the tasks they give you. Adler is so absent… I can see how wires can get crossed, and tempers might boil over.”

“Still. No excuse for blowing up at you like I did. Sorry,” Dean adds, though it hardly conveys the weight behind what he means.

Castiel dips his head, eyes twinkling above a small, genuine grin. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean coughs involuntarily. “Think I can get back to the grind soon, doc?”

“Are you even better?” Let me feel your forehead.” Castiel reaches out his hand.

Dean angles back, just a little. “You don’t have a thermometer for that?”

“Don’t worry,” Castiel says. “I’m very good at estimating temperatures.”

“Okay,” Dean says, wary. He leans in, close enough that Castiel could touch him, if he’d like.

Castiel pushes back the hair on his brow. His palm is warm and dry, resting flat on Dean’s skin.

“Well?” Dean asks. “What’s the verdict?”

“Mm,” Castiel says. “Warm.”

Dean barks out a laugh. “You sonofabitch,” he says, when Castiel starts laughing as well.

“Take tomorrow off,” Castiel says, rising to his feet. “I can drop you off at your apartment, if you’d prefer to recover there. I imagine you’d like to get back into your own clothes instead of my hand-me-downs.”

Truthfully, Dean is fine with what he’s wearing. “Whatever works for you.”

Castiel hums, nodding. “See you in the morning, then.”

“Alright.” Dean smiles. “G’night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, exiting the room with his armful of clothes.


	8. REBOOT EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean glances between Castiel’s hands and face. “You okay?” A sinking feeling hits him; what if his sick days have cost the team something, and Castiel has to break some bad news?
> 
> Castiel pauses with his mouth open. He then blurts: “I’m worried we’ll go back to fighting, now that we’re at the office again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating a day early because 2020 is made up and time doesn't matter!!

It should have been easy, packing up from Castiel's place. After all, it wasn't like Dean had meant to come here in the first place, and hadn’t exactly arrived with a duffel bag to repack. But once Dean decides he’s overstayed his welcome, he finds it harder to leave than it ought to be.

First of all, there’s the damn flowers.

Dean never asked for them to show up, yet somehow he’s been roped into caring for them, ensuring that the vases Castiel has put them in are filled with water, and that the drooping petals have been swept from the countertops into the trash. Castiel asks whether Dean wants to bring any of them home with him, but Dean resoundly says no thanks. It’s not like he wants to partake in the joy of transporting them in Castiel’s cramped car, footwells filled with vases sloshing on every bump and turn. Castiel can throw them in the trash for all Dean cares.

Still, despite Dean’s pronouncement that he doesn’t want them, Castiel manages to convince him to take home a bundle of daisies, if only because one of Dean’s misguided coworkers bought him an _actual plant_ instead of a disposable bouquet.

“I don’t have a dog for a reason,” Dean grumbles, as he wraps the pot of daisies in newspaper and packs it carefully into a cardboard box for transport.

“Daisies are easier to take care of than a dog,” reminds Castiel, as he refills Dean’s mug with another round of tea.

His eyes seem more blue than usual, as Castiel stares him down until, relenting, Dean blows steam from the mug and takes another sip.

Considering his black gardening thumb, Dean can’t be convinced about a promise that plant caretaking is easy, but he’ll give Castiel the benefit of the doubt.

Then comes the gift baskets, awkward in all their glory. He’s not sure how many trips Castiel made bringing them all upstairs, but it couldn’t have been a comfortable single digits.

Dean has made his way through the better part of their contents, thankfully, scarfing down the chocolates and pretzels and beef jerky packets the instant his stomach was ready for solid food. He even cajoled Castiel into joining in the snacking, after Castiel’s repeated insistence that they are Dean’s gifts, not his. But even with their combined grazing, there’s still plenty of snacks to share.

So he makes a kind gesture out of it. Or tries to.

At the cusp of leaving Castiel's apartment, his arms laden with the box of daisies and what’s left of the unused and uneaten portions of the gift baskets, Dean gets pulled to a halt a moment before his full escape.

"Dean,” Castiel calls behind him. “You forgot these."

Groaning, Dean re-enters the apartment to find Castiel in the kitchen, holding up the bottle of wine from his executive gift basket. Castiel sets the bottle down amid the pasta boxes and jars of sauces Dean had surreptitiously tucked away on one corner of the counter, hoping that they would go unnoticed until after Dean was gone.

"Yeah," Dean says, as casually as he can. He shrugs. "I just figured, y'know, since you took care of me when you didn't have to, then they could be—I dunno, a gift?"

A gift, not a payment. Dean is at least smart enough not to say that.

Even so, Castiel levels him with a darkening look. "It was my choice to look after you. I don’t need you to repay me with fusilli and vodka sauce."

"Yeah. Okay, fine. I get it." Dean tucks the box into his elbow, and gestures for peace with his free hand. "Tell you what. How about you keep those for now, and we'll use them up some other night. Y'know. For pasta dinner sometime."

Castiel’s whole body lightens. "Dinner? Here?" His frown melts away. “Could we say next week?”

"Maybe," Dean hedges. "If, y'know—we're not both busy."

Castiel smiles almost shyly, gaze dropping to the one bouquet fresh enough for him to insist Dean bring it home with him. "I would like that."

"Okay. Cool." Dean nods. He feels like his fever is back again, with how his face is heating up. He clears his throat, motions backward with his head. "C'mon, then. Let's... go."

Castiel nods, and follows readily after that.

* * *

Although Castiel drops Dean off at the parking garage to pick up the Impala, he refuses to allow Dean to carry all his newfound belongings back into his apartment alone. After a brief argument, they end up agreeing to drive in tandem to Dean’s building, Castiel’s dumb little blue car puttering behind Dean’s through traffic.

Castiel takes a free parking spot two cars down from Dean’s usual stall, and unlocks his doors. They each fish out a box to take upstairs.

Once inside Dean’s apartment, Castiel remains studious on his box of flowers, as if he might offend Dean by looking intently at his apartment’s layout. He casts subtle glances around, though, ones that Dean might have missed if he weren’t watching Castiel so closely.

They deposit their hauls onto the kitchen table. Dean unpacks the snacks into the kitchen, while Castiel unwraps the pot of daisies and sets it by the lone available window in the hall to the bedroom and bathroom. He pokes at the soil in the pot, fingers testing its moisture levels and finding it satisfactory.

Dean tamps down the smile he only belatedly realized he was giving, watching Castiel from the other end of the hall. “Think it’s gonna live?”

Castiel turns around quickly, as if he’s been caught. “As long as you water it. It should have enough light.” He rubs his fingertips together, working at the remnants of dirt on his skin. “Make sure to deadhead it, to get it to flower again.”

“Sure.” Dean follows behind as Castiel wanders back to the front door, helpless to stop his parting. He’s not even sure why it bothers him, that Castiel is going to leave. Maybe because there’s so much uncertainty about what work will look like for both of them, and there’s no way for Dean to repay him, once he’s gone. “Thank you, again. For everything.”

“Don’t be. It was my pleasure.” Castiel casts a surreptitious glance around, as if he’s only allowing himself to memorize the apartment now that he’s departing. Maybe he’s also scared about what Monday will be like, now that this bubble around them is about to pop.

Dean doesn’t know how to do this. They aren’t friends, but… “Still. Thanks.” He holds out his hand without really thinking about it.

“Oh.” Castiel accepts the handshake, long fingers wrapping around Dean’s hand, palm wide and warm. His gaze catches on Dean, his cheeks slightly pink. “Anytime.”

Dean drops his grip. He hangs around as Castiel leaves, awkwardly holding the door open, watching as he goes. He calls after, “See you Monday,” and Castiel waves stiffly behind himself.

Dean waits until he can no longer see Cas before finally closing the door.

* * *

Between his sick days and the start of the weekend, Dean ends up with a couple extra days of leave before he’s expected to return to work. He spends the weekend at home, taking it easy. He drinks plenty of water (and even some tea), lounging on the couch. The television hums with shows he meant to get caught up on, before he got caught up in staying so late at work.

Even with the added background noise, his apartment seems quiet and… lonely, in ways he didn’t expect. After all, it’s not like Castiel took time off to care for him. He just fit Dean in around his usual work schedule. They weren’t hanging out all day, every day, filling their days the way actual friends might spend time together.

Even still, the couple days Dean spent as Castiel’s pseudo-roommate just shine a light on all the subtle shades of life missing from Dean’s usual routine. He doesn’t have somebody to discuss a show on TV or what to have for supper; somebody who might share an observation about something at work that tangents off into bouts of laughter; somebody to brush shoulders against, as they brush their teeth together at the bathroom sink, one last lingering round of company shared before retiring to their separate beds.

Dean isn’t lonely. He could find a roommate, if he really wanted to. But it wouldn’t be the same. There’s something about Castiel that made these mundane actions all… achingly familiar. Comfortable in ways that rang harmonious with people Dean has loved and left in his past.

He thinks of his year with Sam as his roommate, after Sam got help and got clean. Of years earlier, even, when everything was easier, hanging out with Jo and Ash and his other friends from high school.

How long has it been since Dean actually had friends outside the office? How long since he’s met somebody he can talk to after work besides Eileen and Sam?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have any answers for the hollowness he feels. He just turns the television up a little louder. Pulls the blankets up a little tighter. Spends a little while longer counting sheep before falling asleep again.

* * *

When Monday comes, Dean heads in to work with a mild feeling of trepidation, although he plays his return as casually as he can.

He arrives ten minutes before the official start of day instead of his usual half-hour early, slinking up the back stairwell even though his lung capacity isn't where it was before he got sick. It takes him longer than it should to get up to the legacy floor but he manages it, cracking open the stairwell door and peering inside. Both the cubicle floor and coffee cubby are blessedly empty; Miriam and Inias must be down a floor in the break room, stowing away their lunch bags.

Dean squares his shoulders and walks with light feet across the cubicle floor. And he almost makes it to his office before a burst of clapping erupts from behind him, the raucous noise joined by obnoxious cheers. Dean deflates a little as he turns around, facing Anael, Miriam and Inias where they have popped up amid the cubicles, the trio boorishly celebrating his return.

"Here's the man himself, back from the dead." Inias grins widely and claps Dean on the shoulder. "Welcome back, Dean."

"Couldn't just croak and bequeath me your office, could you?" Miriam says with a wink.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, bowing mockingly toward each of them in turn. "Go on, get it out of your system."

"Can't believe you went to such extremes to get away from us," Anael smirks. “You know you could just ask for a vacation day, right?”

"Like I'd do you the favor of going out so quietly," Dean snarks back, to which Anael laughs in retaliation.

Inias' smile sobers, his gaze growing sincere. "So how are you? You really scared us. Castiel was really worried when he told us how he found you."

Dean winces. He scuffs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, sorry. But you should know we Winchesters are a hardy lot.” He thumps his chest and grins. “It'll take more than a cold to kill me."

Miriam hums her tentative agreement. She eyes him up and down, a playful smirk twisting the corner of her mouth. "Good thing Castiel plays doctor with you so nicely, huh?"

Dean rolls his eyes and sags down to her height, stepping closer with his arms outstretched. "No need to be jealous, Mir. You know you still have my heart."

"Ugh." She grimaces and accepts the hug he forces on her, going so far as to pat him on the back before pushing him away. "Okay, enough of the feelings. The day has barely begun and I’ve already had my fill."

"Right." Dean nods. The air seems to change as his mind switches back to work. "So tell me—what did I miss?"

* * *

As it turns out, not a whole lot happened that Dean was needed to handle.

Inias and Miriam did well filling in for him, and beyond catching up on his email inbox, there aren’t any alarm bells ringing on his list of things to do. Dean analyzes his new defects in less than an hour, and resolves them in less than two. After he’s done, he has so much spare time it almost feels like he’s playing hooky. It’s been awhile since he’s slowed down enough to see the clock tick by throughout the day.

Dean even takes a break at coffee time, for once, grabbing a fresh cup around the same time as Inias and Anael are chatting at the cubby. He joins in their gossiping until he gets a message partway through break, his phone buzzing in his pocket as he refills his cup a second time.

_Cas: mind coming to my office for a minute?_

Across the cubicle floor, he sees a shadow moving behind the blinds in Castiel’s office, peering through its windows. Snorting, Dean closes his phone and takes a sip from his coffee. He then slinks away from the water cooler crowd, crossing the cubicle floor.

“How’s your first day back?” Castiel asks without preamble, twisting his chair to better focus on Dean. He seems normal almost, like the person Dean has grown accustomed to puttering around the apartment the past couple days. But his hands are folded together, rigid in their grip, and he has trouble meeting Dean's eye, which is unlike the Castiel he’s grown to know outside of work.

Clearing his throat, Dean leans back in his seat. "Good. S’ good."

It was nice, getting invited to the morning scrum held for BEAU, even though Dean's not really part of the project and was never invited before. Normally Dean would be affronted by the painfully-obvious gesture Castiel made to include him, but since Dean is likewise trying to bury the hatchet, he'll keep his complaints about it to himself.

“Good.” Castiel’s hands tighten, then fall strangely still.

Dean glances between Castiel’s hands and face. “You okay?” A sinking feeling hits him; what if his sick days have cost the team something, and Castiel has to break some bad news?

Castiel pauses with his mouth open. He then blurts: “I’m worried we’ll go back to fighting, now that we’re at the office again.” He glances up finally, eyes bright and over-sincere as they bore into Dean’s. “It means a lot to me, that we were able to talk before. And I’d like to continue that somehow. To find peace we can manage on the day to day.”

Squirming, Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Of course,” he mumbles. “I want that too.”

“Oh. Great, thank you.” Castiel all but sags with relief, a sight which hits Dean like a fist. Just how bad must he have been before, to scare Cas into thinking he wouldn’t accept such a simple request?

“I’m thinking we could revise the division of labor Bart first imagined for BEAU,” Castiel begins cautiously, turning back to his laptop. “With the first phase closing out, it’s the perfect time to shake things up and make phase two even better. So I’m thinking...” He taps something out onto the keyboard, then turns around his laptop. “Here’s the defect list for phase two.”

Nervously, Dean swallows. Yeah, he’s well-aware of the bugs on that list.

He skims the screen as Castiel continues, “Miriam has already made impressive strides into completing the second phase, but in the process she has overwhelmed the web services QA. And now Inias has little to do until phase three arrives, too.”

“Oh?” Dean asks carefully.

Castiel hums. “I’m not sure how, but she was able to merge a fix for almost every bug in one code commit. It has unfortunately made a code review necessary.” He looks at Dean. “Tell me if you hate the idea, but what do you think of becoming the assistant dev on BEAU? I know it’s not as glamorous as lead, but if Miriam takes on the bulk of the work, and Inias gets switched back to our regular legacy work, then you’d be available as backup to either project.”

Dean glances up from the screen. “You want me to play support to both sides?”

Castiel nods. “It’d be similar to what you did before BEAU started, just with less actual programming on your plate. Any defects that would take Inias or Miriam too long to fix, you could always work on, but otherwise you’d oversee developer timelines and review code commits.”

“So kind of like a manager at the same time as dev.”

“Exactly.”

Dean perks up. “Any meetings I’d have to sit in on?”

“Just the usual scrums. I’d prefer it if you didn’t join the weekly BEAU check-ins with Bart and Adler just yet.”

Dean raises a brow. “Don’t want them knowing you’ve messed with the team format, huh?”

Castiel smiles. “Tell me that isn’t what scares you away.”

Dean blows out a loose breath, grinning. “S’close, but I should be able to handle it.” He looks over Castiel, expression shrewd. “Just how long have you been sitting on this idea?”

“Since before you were getting angry at me,” Castiel replies promptly. His expression softens. “Believe me, I’ve been dreaming of ways to fix BEAU so it’s better for everyone. Especially for you. I just haven’t been—brave. Until now.”

If Dean looks closely, he can see the color rising on Castiel’s cheeks. Poor guy, embarrassed for admitting to being cowardly.

“Aww, Cas. Careful, or I’ll think you like me,” Dean jokes, pushing himself to his feet.

Sheepish, Castiel glances down at the table. “Better leave then, before you change your mind.”

Dean casts his eye back as he departs, his steps lingering in the doorway, but Castiel’s attention has studiously returned to his laptop. If he glances up as Dean leaves, Dean doesn’t get to meet his gaze.

* * *

Dean has maybe an hour alone in his office before there’s a knock on his door. Dean waves the person in without looking, knowing that it’s Miriam by her general presence.

"So," Miriam begins, tapping her nails against Dean's desk.

"So," Dean repeats, tapping away at his keyboard.

With fake nonchalance, she says, "I saw a code branch got opened up a couple weeks back. One built off an earlier phase one build.”

"Hm." Dean hopes his disinterest is enough to throw Miriam off his scent. But considering the updates Castiel gave about on the BEAU project, Dean can put the puzzle pieces together well enough to know what’s coming next.

"Yeah," Miriam continues. "I checked out a copy, naturally. Looked it over." She makes a sucking noise against her teeth. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you? Just had to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong."

Dean gives an ugly snort. "Hey, now. It wasn’t my fault I was excluded from BEAU's dev team."

"Maybe," Miriam hedges, "but it’s your fault Inias is getting moved off the project, right? Castiel just told us,” she adds, when Dean looks at her, surprised, and sees the glower in her eyes. “Y’know it's fucked up you resolved my bug list for me, right? I had to decide whether to throw away your code, rendering your time on it useless. Or, what—merge down the entire phase two's bugs in one go?" She scoffs. "Gail is still pissed with me for dumping all that testing onto her plate at once."

"Problem?" Dean raises one brow, leaning into his bluff. Maybe in hindsight it was a dick move, completing phase two on his own without approval. But what was Dean supposed to do? Just sit there twiddling his thumbs while there was work to be done?

Miriam narrows her eyes. "You didn't stay late to do all that, did you?"

"No," Dean says in a rush.

Miriam scoffs. "Liar. I saw the commit log. Your hours were all over the place.”

Dean curses. "Okay, fine. Maybe I did a little OT to get it done. I was trying to do you a favor."

Miriam makes a full-body despaired motion, her head dropping dramatically back. "You drive me crazy, you know that?" She rolls her eyes. "You're a good programmer, Dean. You've got nothing to prove there. Just recognize that was a shitty thing to do to your teammates and don’t do it again."

Dean winces. He hadn't thought of it that way. "I was only trying to help," he grumbles.

Miriam scrubs a hand over her mouth. "I know. Just know that web services is gonna be pissed for a bit. And me. I’ll be pissed."

"Yeah," Dean says. "But then you're gonna be ahead of schedule."

"Yeah," Miriam agrees unhappily. "Gotta hope Bart and Raph are going to love that."

Dean doesn't say it, but he thinks they will. Everyone in management loves things getting done ahead of time. He pauses, mulling over what’s been said. “Is Inias okay with moving off BEAU?”

Miriam shrugs. “You know him. Always happiest whenever someone else takes the lead.”

“Except he’s head dev on legacy. For now, at least.”

“Mm-hmm.” Miriam taps her nails on his desk. “Better keep him company on that, otherwise the poor puppy is gonna start whimpering real quick.”

Privately, Dean agrees. Inias is a solid developer, but it’s become clear over the years of working together that he appreciates it when other people tell him exactly what he’s supposed to do rather than figure it out for himself.

“Anyways,” Miriam says, rocking back on her heels. “Just wanted to tell you you’re a dick. And to stop working so hard. And I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Dean rubs his thumb between his brows, scratching. “Yeah. We’ll see. And thanks.”

She levels a pointed finger at him as she exits. “I mean it. Slow the fuck down, Dean. Legacy isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

He mumbles vaguely and waves her off, settling back into his laptop. The only time he’ll ever stop is when he’s dead... but maybe in the meantime he can slow down a little.

Just a bit.

The place hasn’t fallen apart without him.

* * *

After a week spent working under the new BEAU setup, Dean isn’t sure it’s all he hoped it would be.

Being involved in the scrums with Castiel and Miriam is a major boon, as is his inclusion in the programming side of the project. With the majority of phase two work already done on their end, and only the small trickle of items coming back for second alpha from QA, Dean and Miriam have the time needed to sneak a peek at the defects listed for phase three, and coordinate a plan of attack on those items in a way that leaves them both satisfied with their predicted workload.

On the legacy side of life, Inias has been more than happy to pluck away at his usual production bug list. But when it comes to the scheduled updates rolling in from implementations, it turns out he prefers to take a back seat.

“Miriam usually handles all of those,” Inias gives as an excuse, which, sure, Dean can see it, considering the way things were handled before—but between BEAU and the updates, it’s too much work to put onto Dean’s plate.

Old frustration burbles up inside of him, thinking about how many times he’s been suckered into this exact same position—trying to keep his teammates happy by sucking it up with a taut smile on his face. Part of him wants to tear into whoever put him in this position—historically, it was Bart’s poor analysis that got Dean stuck here more times than he can count.

He knows exactly who he’d lash out at now, but—he’s going to do things differently this time. Before Dean can give into his anger, he forces himself to take his grievances straight to Castiel.

“What can I do?” Castiel asks—paused partway into packing up his laptop for the end of the day, Dean belatedly realizes. He just burst in, unannounced, and started venting without even considering the time of day.

Dean scrubs his hand through his hair, thinking. He has weighed various ideas the whole day, trying to find the solution with the best outcome. There’s only one route he can see that really fits. “Can we bump up the schedule for phase three?”

Castiel leans back in his seat, a wince twisting his brows. “I doubt web services will be happy about that.”

“No,” Dean agrees, “but that’s not our problem, is it? I mean, it was web services who dumped this whole BEAU project onto us in the first place.” He leans forward, forearms planted on the edge of the desk. “Think about it. Raph won’t care about the details. He’ll just be happy that we’re moving ahead of schedule. So that’s the biggest roadblock down.” He folds down one finger, quickly followed by another. “Then, all we got to do is take the updated ETR to Dumah and get her to sign off on it. She might have to pull another QA in from her department, but if it’s what Raph wants they’ll just have to figure that out.”

Castiel hums thoughtfully. His pen taps against the desk. “What kind of burden would this be placing on you and Miriam?”

“Not much,” Dean answers honestly. “Phase two dev is already done, so Mir’s kinda sitting on her hands waiting for work to come in. She’s got too much on-the-go to go back to updating legacy, but not enough to keep her busy full-time.”

“And there’s too much on your plate that you can’t share with her,” Castiel concludes.

“Exactly. But if we can clear Miriam’s plate early…”

“She can return to legacy early too.”

“Bingo.” Dean snaps his fingers. “What d’you say?”

After a moment of consideration, Castiel says carefully, “I can bring it to Raph. But I’d like to see a work estimate for the phase three items first, both dev and QA. If it looks manageable, it will be easier to sway him and Dumah’s SA to our side.”

“Awesome.” Dean grins, practically leaping out of his chair. “I can do that, easy.”

“Tomorrow,” Castiel reminds him, motioning his head toward the wall clock. “Today is over already.”

“Oh yeah. Huh.” Dean tucks his hands into his pockets. “Hadn’t realized it got so late.”

Castiel hums agreement. He finishes packing up his laptop and swings his messenger bag over his shoulder, pausing at the door to politely usher Dean outside his office first. They walk together across the cubicle floor. His breath hitches slightly, his shoulders squaring before he says, “Care to join me for dinner?”

Damnit. For once, the offer actually sounds tempting. Dean grimaces. “Can’t. Sam’s been checking in nightly ever since he found out I was sick.” He huffs out a laugh. “Think the kid’s forgotten which one of us is the older brother.”

“Do you have any other siblings?” Castiel asks.

“Just a stepbrother.” Dean makes a face. “Or half-brother, I guess. Dad remarried after my parents split.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “That must have been difficult for you.”

Dean shrugs. His mouth screws up in an approximation of a grin. “Maybe. There was a rough patch, when me and Sam were on the road most of the time, travelling back and forth between the households. He hit a rebellious streak and, uh.” Dean’s chuckle fades, grin falling. “Made it hard to keep him under control.”

Sam’s hellion years isn’t a topic Dean touches upon lightly. Not when he got too close for comfort to losing the kid for good.

“You felt you had to take care of him?” asks Castiel.

“Of course,” Dean asserts, frowning. “Somebody had to make sure the kid was being looked after. All those weekends on the move. I was the only constant in his life.” Even though Dean turned out to be just another person who abandoned him, eventually, when Sam turned eighteen and Dean went off to become his own man.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.” Castiel pauses beside him, now in front of the elevator. He smiles softly, glancing over at Dean. “I guess it makes sense, all things considered. I should have sensed it about you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean narrows his gaze. “How’s that?”

Castiel hums, playfully light. “Even now, you try to hold everyone together. It’s such an intrinsic part of you, that you care so much about your team.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean looks away, feeling awkward. He doesn’t like thinking of himself as a caretaker to anybody except Sammy, and Eileen now too.

Castiel must catch his discomfort, because he adds, “I mean it as a compliment, I promise. It’s good you two are so close to one another.” The soft smile on Castiel’s face tightens, growing brittle. “You could say my upbringing was the opposite of yours. Stable household, but no love lost between me and my siblings.” His voice turns brittle. “My stepbrothers only get in touch when I’ve done something to embarrass them.”

Dean follows Castiel into the elevator, the both of them settling in beside each other, backs to the far wall. He clicks his tongue with sympathy. “That’s rough. But I thought your brother, he got you the—uh—” His hand waves out at the legacy floor before he can stop himself from cramming his whole foot into his mouth.

“This job?” Castiel chuckles humorlessly, punching the elevator button for the parkade. “I’m only here because Michael grew tired of the complaints about me at my last job.”

“What? No way.” Dean stares openly. “Who was bitching about you to him?”

“One of the partners,” Castiel replies. “Our estranged brother, Luke.” His face grows impossibly more grave.

Dean shifts awkwardly beside him. “I didn’t know you worked for a second brother.”

Castiel hums. “Michael is more worried about status and appearance than whether any of us are actually experiencing happiness.” His chin drops, his face growing somber. “He saw me as flawed for pursuing an education degree instead of a business one. Everything that went wrong after that was my fault.” He grimaces. “Even at Luke’s law office, I was held responsible for errors that weren’t my own. There was always too much to do, and not enough that I was capable of doing.”

“Shit, man. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, Dean is grateful for the shitty years he spent hawking used cars at the dealership. It was his choice to be there, at least, and his choice again when he quit.

Castiel sighs heavily. “Thank you. But it was just another string pulled to get a job, one that wasn’t even worth it, in the end.”

“Hey now.” Dean nudges him with an elbow. “Those are old times. You’re here now, and we’re clearly better, right?”

It’s false bravado on Dean’s part, but Castiel’s smile does become something more genuine. “Absolutely. Everyone is so loyal to you, and for good reason. We all want to do a great job just to please you.” His expression shines with sincerity as he adds, “It’s partly why I enjoy working here so much. The loyalty you inspire.”

Dean splutters, his face flooding with heat. “Are you kidding? You’ve met Miriam, right?”

Castiel tilts his head, contemplatively. “Yes, I’d say so.”

“So you know she’s here _in spite_ of me, not because of it, right?”

Castiel laughs. “I could see it,” he says, although Dean doesn’t believe him. He’s just going along with it to make Dean more comfortable.

In his pocket, Dean’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen.

_Sam: where ru? i’m online now_

Dean winces. He’d have to rush to get home, and when Sam was finished talking to him, the quiet that would creep in…

He holds a finger up to Castiel, pausing him as he types back.

_Dean: can we postpone til tmrw? busy tonight_

The text bubbles float for eternity on Sam’s end, then drop off with a succinct: _k_

Dean puts his phone away. “Hey, so. I know you mentioned a Vietnamese place nearby, but I’m actually craving burgers from a joint a couple blocks over.” He thumbs over his shoulder, in the vague direction he’s meaning. “You game to join in?”

“Really?” Castiel’s eyes shimmer with excitement. “I would love that.”

“Cool.” He motions his chin toward the Impala. “Walk, carpool, or solo drive?”

“Walk,” says Castiel. “If that’s okay.” As they walk out of the parkade together, Castiel adds, “I didn’t think you’d remember that restaurant. It was weeks ago I mentioned it.”

Dean snorts, tapping his temple. “Mind like a steel trap.”

Castiel laughs, and Dean smiles.

Burgers tonight are probably a good idea. He’s not ready to stop talking to Cas anyway just yet.


	9. ATTACHMENT NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Axe throwing?” Miriam’s eyes bug out. “They’re taking us _axe throwing_?”
> 
> “Jesus,” Dean murmurs, eyes tracing over the bold letters proclaiming _Are you ready to Kick Axe?_ on the website’s main page.
> 
> “I know,” Castiel agrees, turning his laptop back around. “It’s an unusual choice.”

So dinner after work becomes a _thing_ that they do together.

Well, no. _Staying late_ after work becomes a thing that they do together. Dinner just becomes a side effect of those circumstances, since they’re the only two regularly pulling overtime on the legacy floor, and neither of them want to eat at home alone when it comes time to actually part.

Most days, Dean doesn’t really need to stay late. Inias is handling his updates swimmingly, leaving little for Dean to do on the legacy front. And Miriam has never been one who needed oversight to keep her end of things running, her pride offering more than enough incentive to compel her through the BEAU defect list. But Dean likes to hang around a while after work regardless, especially when he sees Castiel has begun doing the same.

Dean’s pretty sure Cas doesn’t need to stay late either. He just stops by when he sees Dean’s light is on and asks whether he’s interested in eating at some place Dean’s never heard of, Cas seemingly having dreamed up a different restaurant for every day of the month. Most times Dean agrees with whatever Castiel has suggested and heads out with him to the place they chose together.

On the days that Dean actually has work to do, Cas will order in takeout for the two of them. He sets up his laptop on the corner of Dean’s desk and camps out there for however long Dean is likewise working, updating whatever documentation seems to fill his time until their delivery driver makes an appearance downstairs.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, all things considered. But it happens gradually. Through meetings in either office. The late night outings, and the conversations thereupon.

Abruptly, and without warning, Castiel has become his friend.

Dean’s not sure he’s ever considered a coworker a friend before. Sure, he’s _friendly_ with most of his colleagues, knowing enough about them that he could answer whether they have kids or what they said they did that weekend. But with Cas, he knows so much more—what kind of books he likes reading, what TV shows he prefers to watch. Where he grew up and who his friends were as a kid, and what kind of aspirations drove him to being the person he is today.

(Cas buys old pulp novels in bulk from the library, picking up mysteries and science fiction paperbacks for twenty-five cents a bag. His streaming tastes are slightly more appalling, geared towards trashy dating shows and reality TV, though Castiel accepts every show recommendation Dean offers him, and comes back on Mondays with talking points for each suggestion.)

During these conversations Castiel gives everything of himself to Dean, even more than Dean even asks of him. He talks about his parents’ divorce, his mother’s eventual remarrying. The stepbrothers he inherited and the pressures that came growing up with their judgments and expectations clouding his head. And Dean finds himself opening up in return, talking about his parents’ split for the first time in decades—hell, for the first time with anybody who wasn’t there to witness the whole mess happening in real time.

Dean shouldn’t be so comfortable with someone so transitory to his life as a coworker, but with Castiel it’s easy. Dean just… talks, without worry or judgment, discussing things he’s long-buried out of sight. And Castiel listens, rapt, to whatever Dean has to say, offering just the right amount of empathy and interest to keep Dean wanting to say more, keeping the night afloat on small observations and confessions that accumulate, like snowflakes, into a cozy blanket that covers them both.

Dean has never worked with someone he wants to talk to when the work day is over, someone who inspires text messages about something he saw in traffic or during a show he’s watching, someone who has him researching which takeout joint he can suggest they order from next. Just random moments throughout his days where he thinks “Castiel would like that.”

Dean hasn’t had somebody like that around him in a long, long time. Not since Sam got clean and got his shit together, moving out to California to start the next chapter of his life without Dean stuck fast to his side.

Dean’s not an idiot. He knows he’s kind of kept to himself after Sam left, living in his work and not much else. He closed down, kept things simple with his vision narrowed. But Castiel makes him think maybe he can open up again.

His new outlook bleeds into everything: his home life, his work day. Everything.

Dean arrives on the legacy floor smiling every morning, eager to greet Inias and Mir and Jo on his way to the coffee cubby. He jumps into his workload with excitement, knowing that he has scrums upcoming with Castiel, that phase two is chugging along, going more quickly than ever.

Even weeks later, midway through the accelerated phase three, Dean still can’t believe how smoothly things are going. Despite Dumah’s displeasure, despite the breakneck schedule, despite the rocky beginnings to their getting to know each other, everything with Cas is going okay.

No, better than that. He and Castiel have become a well-oiled meeting _machine_ , blasting through the weekly BEAU scrums like nobody’s business. Once the new timelines were approved, Dean joined the weekly touchpoint with management, and anytime Bart or Raphael call for updates, Dean knows exactly what’s going on. Any issues that arise are brought to him immediately, and he and Cas work out a solution together.

So maybe there was something to talking to Castiel on a regular basis. Something that actually helps make the day to day better, not just for Dean but for legacy as a whole.

“Can’t believe phase three is almost over,” says Miriam during one of their last morning scrums regarding BEAU. Legacy’s meetings on the topic have cut back to only once per week, although they still gather in Castiel’s office to go over the meager to-do list left at this point.

Dean hums agreement, his shoe tapping against the edge of Castiel’s desk. The rhythmic thud makes Castiel glance sidelong away from his laptop, his eyes narrowed at Dean but his mouth quirked with humor, so Dean continues the annoyance.

Castiel exchanges one such look with Dean now, though disappointedly Dean doesn’t hold his interest for long. Castiel turns instead to Miriam, saying, “Have you heard what they’re planning for a reward, once BEAU is done?”

“Reward?” Miriam straightens in her seat. “Are we talking about cash bonuses, or…?”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “When’s the last time you remember getting a bonus?”

Miriam’s mouth flattens. “Fair enough.”

“Dean’s right. It’s not a cash bonus. They’re planning a skill building event for us instead.” Castiel clicks at his laptop, then rotates the computer around so Dean and Miriam can see it.

On the screen is the side profile of a few unknown people, their arms angled above their heads, hands and elbows even heights to each other. In the background, large bullseyes are painted on sheets of plywood. In their hands are small, sharp hatchets.

“Axe throwing?” Miriam’s eyes bug out. “They’re taking us _axe throwing_?”

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs, eyes tracing over the bold letters proclaiming _Are you ready to Kick Axe?_ on the website’s main page.

“I know,” Castiel agrees, turning his laptop back around. “It’s an unusual choice.”

“It’s insane!” Miriam thumps back into her chair, her hands engulfing her temples. “Axe throwing,” she murmurs again to herself.

“Where did they even find this?” Dean asks, as Castiel navigates through the website.

“The training site is on an acreage outside the city. By Bart’s instructions, we will be driven out there early morning and stay there through the afternoon.” Castiel’s brow lift. “Oh, good. Lunch will be supplied.”

“I mean, who came up with this idea? Don’t tell me it was Bart.” Dean wouldn’t put it past the guy to arrange a scenario where his colleagues would be armed and he could technically put them in harm’s way.

Castiel gives an uncharacteristically loose shrug. “I think Raphael read somewhere that it was an excellent team-building exercise.”

“ _How_?” Miriam proclaims, aghast. “Are we taking turns chucking them at each other?”

Dean snorts. “If you can dodge a wrench…”

“Exactly, thank you.” Miriam flaps her hand at him. “What’ll they even do if someone gets injured? There’s no way our insurance covers this.”

“Hey now, don’t get too hasty,” Dean tells her. “Could be a good way to get paid time off.”

“Stick your hand up against one of those bullseyes, then,” she threatens. “Let me practice my aim.”

“Both of you, please,” Castiel says, exasperated, as Dean and Miriam laugh and swat at each other. Dean settles back in his seat, giving Castiel his full attention. “What do you think, are you going?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, it depends when it’s happening.”

Castiel reviews the bulletin again. “They’ve blocked off an entire Friday for axe throwing.”

“Holy shit,” says Miriam. “They're giving us the full day for this? Right before the weekend?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “A paid day outside the office.”

Miriam laughs. “Fuck yeah, I'm going then! Free long weekend.”

Castiel looks to Dean, a question in his eyes.

“A full day spent throwing weapons around?” Dean beams, grinning. “Hell yeah, sign me up.”

* * *

The last days of BEAU pass with little for Dean to do besides anticipate its ending.

With the development portion of phase three completed, Miriam transfers back onto the regular legacy team, picking up the slack on the scheduled updates neither Inias nor Dean have had time to attend to yet. Legacy gets rolling again under its own steam, battle-weary but otherwise no worse for wear.

As the day of the axe throwing encroaches, Dean checks in with Inias and Anael to ensure they are okay working with reduced staff that Friday. Both have already said they’re fine staying behind, but Dean doesn’t want to assume that they won’t change their minds.

“Are you kidding me?” Anael says. “Do I look like someone that either wants or needs an axe throwing skill?”

Inias snorts. “We’ll stick to sharpening her wordplay weaponry, thanks.”

With their blessings, Dean RSVPs as attending the team building day celebrating BEAU’s end.

* * *

The day of axe throwing comes on a muggy summer morning, the air wet with the aftermath of thunderstorms that had rumbled through the area in the night.

Dean loiters in the lobby of their office tower, feeling underdressed without his usual button-down and tie, a bookbag with a change of clothes slumped at his feet. He got an odd look from Virgil at front security, and would’ve likely been stopped if he weren’t already on a first name basis with the majority of the in-house security team. But the suits that pass Dean narrow their eyes at him, subconsciously snagging on how he stands out conspicuously in his t-shirt and jeans, his plaid overshirt rolled up to the elbows against the humidity hanging in the air. He’s surprised none of the higher-ups have taken it upon themselves to come over and try kicking him out for trespassing.

Castiel and Miriam arrive a short time later, coming up from the parkade atypically dressed in casual wear. Miriam is slouched over in a pale pink jumper, tired from the early morning, as usual, her frown hidden by the oversized brown sunglasses she wears to hide her glare. Cas, however, looks damn near unrecognizable without his ill-fitting suit and striped blue tie—his shoulders look broader when stretched beneath a tight dark t-shirt, his hips looking leaner in jeans.

Dean swears the guy’s thighs don’t look so thick when he’s wearing dress slacks; he’ll have to confirm as much when Monday rolls around.

They join Dean in his corner of the lobby, waiting for web services or upper management to come collect them for the day. Unfortunately, it's Bart who finds them first. He exits the elevator with his fake grin already plastered on, overwide and overbright. Upon locating them, he throws an arm apiece around Dean and Miriam, exclaiming, “How great is it we get to spend the day together?”

“Great,” Miriam chimes, the word dragging out of her a half-beat slower than Dean’s proclamation of the same. Dean grunts through a breath as Bart squeezes them into his sides, dragging them out towards the office tower’s front entrance. Dean fakes interest in whatever small talk Bart is blathering on about, all the while making eye contact with Castiel, who is watching from afar, giving a guileless smile in response to Dean's gaze begging, _Help us!_

Out front, two white rental vans are parked and puttering with their side doors sprung open. Dumah, Gail and Indra from web services are clustered together by the smoking section outside the lobby, chatting among themselves. Bart gathers them up and goes over the itinerary again as they wait for Raphael to arrive a fashionable fifteen minutes late.

When it comes time, Dean is surprised to see that Zach has decided to join Raphael in his late arrival. The two of them exit the building decked out in dark suits and button-down shirts, expensive ties still knotted at their throats. Hell, even Bart made the effort to change into something more casual, though Zach and Raphael both carry designer satchels containing what Dean would guess is a change of clothes for each of them.

Dean glances awkwardly over himself. Maybe it was a mistake to come into work already wearing what he’d be dressed in on a weekend. The only consolation he has is that Miriam and Castiel are in the same boat.

"Should we change now?" Dumah asks, glancing between legacy and management with the same thoughts on her mind.

Bart shrugs off her concern. "There are change rooms on-site at the axe throwing location. You can change your clothes there."

Dumah's expression suggests that a change of clothes is necessary in order to, you know, _change clothes_. But Bart clearly does not share her worries, seeing how his pompous smile continues to ignore her concerns.

“Alrighty then,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Into the van with you, come on, come on. Fill up those back seats first.”

As Castiel climbs readily into the first van’s back seat, Dean exchanges a look with Miriam. She responds by throwing a fist onto her flattened hand, to which Dean matches suit.

Three tosses, and then Dean's scissor loses to her rock.

Miriam cackles. “You’re so predictable.”

Dean curses, and climbs in after Cas, ending up in the bitch seat of the back of the van.

Indra and Gail end up in the two seats ahead of them, with Dumah claiming the passenger front. Unsurprisingly, management takes the entire second van for themselves, which is fine by Dean. He doesn't think he could manage an hour-long drive with both Bart and Zach sitting in the same vehicle, barking out laughter over the same stupid management jokes that have been retold at every social gathering the company’s had in the past five years. Just having Bart there with his sycophantic smiles and constant schmoozing is enough to make Dean carsick.

"It's a tight fit," Castiel murmurs conversationally, when Dean lands in his seat beside him, their shoulders fitted snugly together. Dean snorts and waggles an eyebrow, and Castiel flushes. "That's not what I meant."

“Oh no? You mean this?”

Wriggling in his seat for emphasis, Dean rubs his shoulder pointedly into Castiel. He ends up jostling into both him and Miriam, who grumbles as she pushes away. “Aw, come on, you guys, grow up. Stop acting like children,” she proclaims, so Dean makes a point of leaning more on her side of the bench seat. Miriam counteracts with a sharp elbow jabbed into Dean's side.

Dean takes the loss and settles into Castiel again, their arms and legs brushing together in the cramped back seat.

The drive out to the acreage is a quiet one, with Gail and Indra murmuring between themselves, and Dumah sometimes asking questions directed at them all. Dean for his part is thankful for the silence. He’s always liked being in a vehicle, heading out to whatever distant place he wants to be, just him and the road and fresh air in-between. It’s not the same, being crushed in the backseat with Mir and Cas, but Dean will take it. It’s just nice to be outside the office for once.

When the cloistered noise of the city gives way to a more rural setting, the van slows and makes a turn down a long gravel lane framed in by old growth trees. The air grows cool beneath their heavy shade, the road becoming more narrow and isolated the longer they drive.

“Oh, god,” Miriam murmurs, “they’re taking us to a body farm. They’re going to murder us and bury us, for science’s sake.”

Dean chuckles but otherwise keeps his eyes peeled on the road unfurling ahead of them. They turn onto a private lane that curves until the trees give way to a quiet patch of loosely tended lawn boxed in by a wooden fence. A small farmhouse reclines against the far treeline, its batten board siding painted a stark white against the black storm shutters framing in the windows. Distantly, Dean can see the throwing range located offside the house, caged in by safety fencing.

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel says, eyeing the woods and neatly-tended flower beds around the farmhouse, his nose nearly smudging the window.

Dean spies a distant lean-to where a small herd of cattle are grazing. Privately, he agrees.

When the vans park, Bart throws open his van’s side door and jumps out, gravel crunching beneath his feet. He pronounces, unnecessarily, “We’re here,” his arms are extended to either side, as if claiming the surrounding natural bounty for himself. Raphael and Zach leave the van more slowly, carrying their bags once again.

The humidity is high in the meadow, the air sheltered on all sides by trees. Dean pulls at his shirt collar, wondering whether it would’ve been wise to bring a second t-shirt for when he inevitably sweats through his current attire.

The front door of the farmhouse creaks open, and from within steps a broad man with long, wavy, graying hair. His mustache twitches when he sees them. From a distance, he calls, “You the computer team?”

Bart’s omnipresent smile falls slightly, flickering like a light bulb on the fritz. “Yes?”

The man nods brusquely, stepping back inside. The storm door bangs again when he returns, this time with half a dozen weapons gripped in either hand. His arm muscles stand out strikingly strong against his gray henley, as he walks toward them with grim determination.

Miriam whistles quietly as he approaches. From the corner of her mouth, she murmurs to Dean, “He can murder me anytime.”

Dean bites his lip and nods appreciatively.

“Mr. Mullen,” Bart says, holding out his hand in introduction. “So good to meet you.”

Unmoving, the man glances down at Bart’s hand, then slowly turns his pale gaze over them. “I’m Cain, and this is The First Blade Axe Throwing Company. Follow me.” He gestures roughly toward the throwing range across the pasture. Dean exchanges a wary look with Castiel, but ends up taking the lead in following Cain across the grounds.

“Excuse me,” Zach calls after Cain, on his unstoppable march across the pasture, “I was told there would be changing stalls on-site?”

“In the house,” Cain says gruffly, gesturing behind them. “Talk to my wife. She’ll show you where.”

Zach nods ingratiatingly, and he and Raphael branch off from the group towards the farmhouse, cutting a quick line across the grass.

Cain wastes no time getting down to business as soon as they are lined up at the throwing range.

“Axe,” he says, lifting one arm. “Hatchet,” he says, lifting the other. “You’ll start on the smaller one, then upgrade if you seem capable of it.

“Any volunteers?” Cain asks, surveying them again with his cold blue eyes.

Gail and Indra take a visible step back.

Clearing his throat, Dean holds up his hand. “I will. Dean,” he adds, directing toward himself.

“Dean.” Cain nods, solemn, and waves him up to the front. He lines Dean’s feet up with the wood plank delineating the closest they should step toward the plywood target. He goes over the basics—hand grip, stance, technique—in clipped instructions, his broad hands nudging Dean in slight ways to correct his posture. Miriam gives a salacious smile that lights a fire in Dean’s face. He glares at her until she puts her smirk away.

“In one motion,” Cain tells him, “move your arms forward and let go,” so Dean does as much, pushing up from his legs through his torso as he tosses the hatchet—

—which lands off-center from the bullseye.

“Good job,” Cain says, as Dean’s coworkers politely clap at his effort. Dean feels his face flush again with the praise. He shakes his head when Castiel gives him a warm grin and a congratulatory pat on the back.

They take turns after that, lining up in groups of three along the trio of individual targets. Indra manages to nick the plywood before his hatchet bounces off, but both Dumah and Miriam turn out much deadlier on their initial throws, their weapons thudding heavily into the plywood, embedded within the bullseye lines.

When Zach and Raphael finally show up, Cain has to pause their efforts and give out his instructions all over again.

Once satisfied that they’ve all listened attentively and are applying the correct techniques to their throws, Cain splits them up into two groups—web services with Bart, legacy with Zach, and Raphael sitting out to man the scoreboard—and goes over the rules for a competitive game their teams will be playing.

“Each ring of the bullseye is worth one, five, and ten points respectively,” Cain says, motioning them from the outer rings toward the inner eye. “The first team to earn fifty points wins, but be careful—you need fifty exactly. If you go over, your team starts again from zero.”

“Easy enough,” Bart grins. He adds with a wink, “Can’t wait to beat you, Dean.”

“We’ll see,” Dean says absently, thanking his lucky stars that they aren’t on the same team. He’s going to savor beating Bart’s ass into the ground.

The first throws go wonky for both sides, with Gail and Castiel’s tosses unable to snag the plywood deep enough to stick. Castiel steps back from the line with a sheepish look, murmuring an apology to Miriam as he passes her on the way to the back of the line.

“S’fine,” Dean says, tapping his knuckles against Castiel’s arm. He’s been watching closely whenever Castiel throws the hatchet, and his technique seems mostly in-line with what Cain instructed.

Miriam and Dumah line up against each other, followed by Bart versus Indra, and Zach versus Dean. After a couple times through the line, Zach begins huffing with each throw, his shirt tails coming untucked and hanging loosely from his waist. Raphael placidly watches them all, updating the tally on the white board each time a hatchet manages to land.

“You’re really good,” Castiel tells him, after Dean manages another ten-point strike. They’re up by only four points, and in danger of going over fifty should Miriam manage to make another bullseye after him.

“Thanks,” Dean says absently, shrugging off the compliment, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He leans back against the wood fence beside Castiel, waiting for their next turn to throw. “Y’know, you’re landing offside because you’re twisting at the hips while you’re throwing.”

Castiel looks at him, brows furrowed. “Is that where I’m screwing up?”

Dean winces. “Not what I meant. Just—here, come over.” He waves Castiel over to the empty target, drawing a hatchet out from the small barrel beside the throwing line. “Line up, like you normally would.”

Castiel sorts out his stance, thumb tucked beneath his other palm along the hatchet shaft, and pauses with the weapon raised above his head. Dean nudges at Castiel’s arm, then his shoulders, bringing his stance into better balance. “Now, watch what you’re doing with your hips,” Dean says, resting his hands on either side of Castiel’s waist to hold him steady, head tilted aside. “Now, throw!”

The hatchet springs forward, arcing in a clean spiral. The blade thumps solidly into the plywood.

Dean cheers. “See? Just don’t twist while you’re throwing. You’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” Castiel murmurs, face down, angled toward the target. His cheeks are colored, his shoulders hunched as he says, “Um…”

“Oh.” Dean feels his thumb brush skin a moment before he drops his hands from Castiel’s hips, stepping back hurriedly. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh.” He scratches his head, clears his throat. His attention turns toward the rest of their team. “Next up.”

Castiel nods stiffly, and Dean wouldn’t swear to it, but even the tips of his ears look pinker than usual. He doesn’t have long to linger on the thought before Miriam is waving him up to the throwing line. Distracted, Dean pushes himself through the correct pose and makes his throw before bothering to check the scoreboard. His team groans as Dean unintentionally sends them over the fifty-point line.

“Don’t say anything,” Dean murmurs roughly, when Miriam looks over him, gaze lingering on the furnace glowing in his cheeks.

She doesn’t say anything, however, just turns her gaze onto Castiel, who is looking much the same as Dean.

* * *

By time one of their teams manages to make the fifty-point goal—Dean’s team, thank god, since Bart likewise accidentally sent his team back to square zero on his next toss—the morning heat has built into a stifling cloud, making it time for them to eagerly break for lunch. Cain collects the hatchets into one of the small side barrels and ushers them all toward the front door of the farmhouse, instructing them to kick off their shoes on the porch before continuing into the kitchen.

Inside, a woman with dark brown hair has set out a triptych of trays overladen with sandwiches cut into triangles. A stack of paper plates and napkins are available on the old hardwood dining table. Single-serving chip bags sit next to two pitchers of water and iced tea. A collection of oddly-matched chairs crowd the table, with two additional leaves set into it to extend its length.

“Help yourself.” The woman gestures to the spread, denoting the sandwich trays as salmon, chicken, and egg salad.

Cain makes the first move, kissing the crown of his wife’s head before unabashedly loading up his plate. He doesn’t linger in the kitchen for long, opting instead to exit the back door to eat his lunch elsewhere in peace.

Dean shuffles through the awkwardness that stems from workplace acquaintances cohabiting a location outside of work, taking food from the table in a smorgasbord free-for-all style. With his plate loaded up with half a sandwich of each type, Dean grabs two bags of chips and, making eye contact with Castiel, motions his head toward the back door.

The door bangs shut behind him. Outside, he finds a small enclosed porch with a swing bench and a couple muskoka chairs, a small round table wobbling on the floorboards between them. Cain leans with his back toward them, arms braced against the porch rails, a chicken sandwich hanging from his hand, half-eaten.

“Okay if we join you?” Dean asks, even as he takes a seat beside the small table.

Cain shrugs, neither concerned nor caring about their company. It’s a quiet but pleasant enough tableau—far better than listening to Bart talking inside.

Castiel sets down his plate, then untucks the two glasses of iced tea he has wedged into the crook of his arm. Dean nods his thanks, exchanging the glass Cas gives him with a bag of chips he snagged. As if sensing Cain’s quiet mood, they set into their meals in silence.

The porch looks out into a small clearing in the brush filled with flower beds growing wilder than the smaller beds in front of the farmhouse. The trees here are cultivated into neat rows, the beginnings of fruit growing on their branches. Between the trunks, white boxes buzz with what Dean assumes are colonies of honey bees.

“Nice place you have here,” Dean says conversationally.

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel agrees, murmuring, his gaze casting serenely across the grounds.

Cain bobs his head. He chews his sandwich, calm amid the silence. “Colette and I have been here many years. It’s taken a long time to create our paradise.”

Dean glances down to the muskoka chairs, clearly hand-carved, the same as the round table. He doesn’t know what to say to Cain’s confession.

He just can’t imagine having something like this: a place to curate to his liking, shared with someone else. Dean’s whole life has been spent in transit from location to another. Even his apartment hasn’t been imbued with any sense of permanence. Hell, he hasn’t even hung any pictures on the walls.

Castiel, however, knows how to reply. “Thank you for allowing us here,” he says with quiet reverence.

It seems to be enough to satisfy Cain, because he stays out on the porch with them long after his sandwich is eaten, his cup of iced tea drained.

Still. Dean knows better than to continue bugging the guy. Crackling open his chip bag, Dean pops one into his mouth, taking a crunching bite. “What d’you say, Cas?” he teases, mouth full. “Thinking of taking up axe throwing full-time?”

Castiel hums thoughtfully. “I could get used to it.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah. I wouldn’t mind picking up a few tricks either.”

Cain moves from his perch, rising to full height. “You both are adequate with the hatchets. You can move on to the axes this afternoon, if you’d like.”

 _Adequate_. Somehow Dean knows this is considered high praise, coming from Cain. Exchanging an eager look with Castiel, Dean answers for the both of them. “Hell yeah, sir. That’d be great.”

Cain nods stiffly, his mustache twitching with what Dean assumes is a smile. “Good. Will see you at the throwing cages.”

As he returns to the kitchen, Cain drops a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder, patting him. Dean feels his body ignite at the spot.

“Shut up,” he murmurs to Cas, who is laughing, closed-mouth, around his mouthful of chips.

“It’s just cute,” Castiel says once they’re alone. “Your crush on him.”

Dean mutters something rude before chugging back his iced tea, the glass feeling cool against his overheated face. As much as he’s embarrassed by what caused it, Dean could stare at the gummy smile Castiel gives him all day.


	10. UPGRADE TEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel’s smile flickers and fades. “Did you eat? I didn’t interrupt your supper, did I?”
> 
> “What? No, I ate when I got home.” He eyes Castiel shrewdly. “Have _you_ eaten?”
> 
> Castiel gives a sheepish look. “I may have forgotten, during everything that’s going on.”

A week later, Dean stirs with the contents of a strange dream.

He is back at the farmhouse, standing in the shade of the covered porch, listening to the rhythmic chopping of woodcutting in the distance. A light breeze curls warmly around him, pulling him down the creaking porch steps and out onto a gravel path winding through the rustling trees.

The air is gentle and warm, the forest around him alive with dappled sunlight peering through the branches. His head aches, and as he rubs idly at his arms, he finds them overly hot and clammy.

The sound of splitting wood grows closer the further he walks, until Dean pushes aside a branch on the path and steps out into a clearing green. There he finds Castiel standing amid a haphazard wood pile, the grass at his feet scattered with half-hewn logs. He lifts an axe above his head and carries it down in a swift arc, slicing cleanly through the wood block standing on end atop a thick tree stump.

Castiel’s skin is bronzed by the sunlight blazing down on the clearing, his torso bare and gleaming with sweat. Even his hair hangs in wet curls around the crown of his head, clinging to the curve of his ears, the flat of his brow.

A branch snaps beneath Dean’s foot, and Castiel darts a glance aside. The axe glides downward, thudding as it strikes the last of the wood pile. He faces Dean fully, his forearm wiped across his brow. His eyes rest on Dean like two chips of ice, bringing with them a deep sense of relief.

Quiet, he asks why Dean is out of bed.

“Because I’m not tired,” Dean answers, although it isn’t true. He is brought here by his dream, carried along to where he ought to be.

Castiel steps closer. He touches a hand to Dean’s brow, his broad palm planting firmly against Dean’s freckles. His skin is sticky from his work with the axe.

The gesture would have been enough to gauge Dean’s temperature, but Castiel does not stop there. He crowds in closer to Dean, bare arm wrapping loosely around him, its weight coming to rest warmly on his waist. His palm slides around the back of Dean’s head, cupping his neck, leaving room for Castiel to dip his head forward, their brows now pressed flush together.

Dean leans into him, licking his lips until they shine. His breath mingles with the faint puffs grazing across his cheek, where Castiel’s mouth rests so near to his own.

Dean finds his arms have moved without his volition, coming to rest on Castiel’s sun-warmed shoulders, forearms curving in a loose hug around his neck. The two of them cling together like that, the weight of Dean’s heartbeat shared where his chest touches Castiel’s.

Castiel shifts slightly, his lips dragging over Dean’s cheek.

Down from stubbled skin to jaw.

To the length of Dean’s throat.

To the soft space behind Dean’s ear, teeth dragging gently, the sensation trilling through Dean’s gut and upwards. Lightning strikes along his spine.

Dean shifts his head backward, making room for the kisses now trailing plush down his neck.

And as he moves his pillow crumples, tipping over its fulcrum, sliding off the side of his bed.

Dean’s head thumps onto the mattress, and he wakes rapidly, chest heaving, his body askew beneath his blankets.

“The fuck?” he mumbles, stretching out on his back. A hot flush washes over him even as he moans, jolted by the skim of sheets currently tenting around his hips. He would feel embarrassed if he didn’t also feel so good.

Murmuring another curse, Dean rolls onto his stomach, trapping his heavy cock between his body and the sheets. He thrusts a little, torn on whether to indulge the lust still swirling in him, or banish it outright by waking in full.

An image of Castiel comes to mind, ready, seizing, zealous. His generous mouth, crooked in that small smile he tends to give Dean only in private. His shoulders spread beneath Dean’s hands, their strength coiling. Warm. His broad hands spread across the small of Dean’s back, digging in. Pulling. Squeezing.

Dean inhales sharply through his nose. He forces himself to his feet.

“Nope, nope,” he tells himself, dipping down to drag his pillow back onto the bed. He strides into the bathroom and throws on the taps to the shower, stepping into its stream before it has had the chance to scarcely warm.

Dean tells himself, as his teeth clatter and his body trembles, his mind thrust sharply into consciousness, that it was just a dream. His subconscious doesn’t know what’s good for him. It just makes up whatever it wants to get him laid.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Dean almost believes it. It’s almost enough to banish the thought of Castiel—now in the shower with him, naked, sudsy with a rich lather of bubbles clinging to his skin—from occupying his mind.

* * *

Being at the office doesn’t make it any easier.

Dean arrives late, his hair sticking out at odd angles, still damp around the collar from his haphazard dash out the door. He hadn’t meant to linger overlong in the shower, but he did, and it devoured his time for breakfast and for shaping up his appearance for work.

It’s been literal years since Dean has come into the office with more than a hint of stubble, or without his hair perfectly coiffed into a careless rightward slant. There’s no way it will slip by unnoticed.

Worse, it feels like his appearance shouts his scattered thoughts to everyone, his mind a glass box with perverted thoughts rattling around inside, skittering around in the open for all to see. He can’t even make eye contact with Castiel as he crosses the cubicle floor; he sails by the coffee cubby without so much as a smile spared Castiel’s way.

Dean can apologize later, once his mind has clouded over, the glass box dimming back to black. Once he gets back into the groove with work, the unsettled strangeness left in him by the dream will go away.

Except, hours later, the only change seems to be that his coworkers are looking at him funny.

“Just saying,” says Miriam, gathering by the cubby the instant Dean slinks out to get some coffee, “if you’re not feeling great, you could always take a vacation day.”

“I don’t need more time off.” Dean stares studiously at the mug he fills with coffee, careful not to spill a single drop.

Miriam clucks her tongue. Her arms remain crossed, unimpressed. “Whatever you say, boss,” she says as she saunters away.

Dean keeps his head down as he returns to his office, knowing already that Castiel will be watching for him from behind the confines of his own desk.

Still, Dean survives the day, and he bullies his way through the rest of the week in much the same manner. Each night his dreams fill up with stupid re-imaginings of Castiel in different situations—even one where Cas was throwing axes in a crop top, of all things—and each morning fills up with a frustrated blend of wanting to indulge his body’s cravings while also wishing he could report it to HR.

Dean can’t catch feelings for Castiel. He just can’t. He cannot get involved with a coworker, especially the first one who is technically his friend.

“We’re just friends,” Dean says sternly, mumbling to himself with his office door closed, after he caught himself, once again, seeking out Castiel the moment he stepped out onto the cubicle floor.

Castiel is just a friend. He’s a hard worker, which Dean appreciates, and he’s clever and funny, if in a weird way that Dean doesn’t always understand. He doesn’t really care that Castiel is good looking, or that his hands are big, his mouth chapped and wide. And he doesn’t _need_ their end of the day conversations any more than he _needs_ to eat out with Castiel every night.

(Both of which he _needs_ to put a stop to as soon as possible, if he has even a hope of getting out of this mess with their friendship unscathed.)

Really, Cas is like Miriam or Inias: just somebody Dean likes talking to during his work day. Someone who brightens it, sure, but someone Dean could do without.

Castiel is just a friend. And if Dean thinks hard enough about it, all of his coworkers are friends. There’s nothing special about what Castiel has with him.

 _But none of them make your heart beat faster_ , a devilish voice reminds Dean, the same one that has him touching his dick when it chubs up each morning. _None of them grace your dreams_.

“Fuck.” Groaning, Dean collapses forward, head thumping against the desk. He allows a moment of self-pity to slip in, enveloping him like a threadbare blanket. The threat of lust bucks and settles within his bloodstream. He then straightens slowly, grumbling, “It doesn’t mean anything. We’re just friends.”

Just friends. If only Dean can keep it that way.

* * *

A call comes in late one Thursday evening, hours after Dean has left the office. He’s sprawled out on the couch, watching old reruns of a guilty-pleasure medical drama off a streaming site. It takes him a moment to place the noise of his cell phone. He isn’t expecting a phone call from Sam tonight.

Grabbing his cell from a side table, he checks the caller ID. Frowning, he accepts the call, the phone pushed to his ear. “Cas?”

Muffled noises scratch the line, accompanied by a breathless gust that crackles the connection. “Dean! Did we move our current cycle to pre-production today?”

“Uh, yeah. We’re scheduled for it.” The first Thursday of every month marks the closure of a given cycle. Pre-production locks at the end of day, with production then scheduled at midnight.

“Was Miriam’s update included in the promotion?” Castiel’s voice is tight, octaves higher than it should be. His gravelly tone is unnaturally smoothed out, worry grading it thin.

Dean frowns harder. “Yeah. Why? Is there some kind of problem?”

A stifled curse comes from Castiel’s end of the line, followed by further rustling and banging.

Dean pauses the TV, giving his attention over to Castiel. “Dude, you’re freaking me out,” he says, when Castiel is quiet for several moments more.

“I’m sorry. I just found out the file I gave her is wrong. The rate tables don’t match.” A heavy breath, then: “What do we do?”

“Uhh—” Dean scours his memories, narrowing down which update Castiel is talking about. “You mean the maintenance update?”

“The zip file filled with tables. The ones with all the group codes.”

Dean knows the one. He leans forward on the couch. “So what’s wrong with them?”

“Everything! Naomi uploaded an updated product file a couple weeks back that I missed. Someone new emailed on behalf of her SA, and the email routed into the wrong folder.”

“And how different are the file versions?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know,” Castiel repeats, calmer. “How do I check?”

“Forward me the latest zip file over messenger.” Rising, Dean heads for the tiny desk in the corner of the living room that comprises his home office. With the cell phone wedged against his ear, he fetches his laptop from its bag and begins booting it back up. “I just need to log into the VPN. Then I’ll compare file versions for you.”

A deep breath gusts out on Castiel’s end. “Thank you, Dean. I’m sending it right now.”

Dean fishes his charger cable out of the bag and fiddles with its arrangement in the power bar while the VPN boots up. Now connected, Dean’s messenger system chimes to life. Castiel’s tight breaths sound in his ear as Dean downloads the zip and opens the cloud sharing service in a separate browser.

The old file is buried in the maintenance folders on the cloud, which are arranged by date of maintenance. Dean opens the most recent folder and downloads the files within. Unzipping both copies, he begins opening the files in matching pairs within an application that allows him to compare file contents.

“Well?” Castiel asks, having deemed Dean as being quiet for too long.

“Just a sec,” Dean says slowly, mind on the comparisons playing on his screen. “Okay. So the good news is there’s only four files that are out of date. The rest have no changes.”

Castiel exhales sharply, clearly relieved. “And the bad news?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth curls. “Brace yourself. These files are twenty-some thousand lines apiece. It’ll take about an hour each to edit and compress.” He glances at the time. “Production is in five hours,” he adds, perhaps unnecessarily.

Castiel quietly curses again. “Who do we need to contact?”

Dean thinks about it. “We’ll need somebody in deployment who can pause the move to production. Hester, maybe, though we probably need to let Uriel know, since he’s the department lead and we’ll need his final say. Also need a QA, maybe two. Anael could confirm on the alpha site, but we’ll need a pre-prod QA since she doesn’t test beyond beta.”

“Let me reach out to deployment. You start the file conversions, and I’ll call Anael to see if she can help.”

“Will do,” says Dean. Castiel hangs up, and Dean switches focus over to his laptop, opening the maintenance code projects and booting up a local copy of their compiler.

There’s a knock on his door not too long later, shortly before the first file has finished being imported into the format converter. Dean swivels back on his chair, rising on creaking knees. He hardly glances through the peephole before he turns the locks on his front door, swinging the door wide open.

Castiel steps in, looking haggard. In his right fist, he raises a wine bottle by its neck.

“Good idea,” Dean says, accepting the bottle. The label marks it as the same one Dean left with him a while back, after retreating home from Castiel’s impromptu caretaking while Dean was ill. He leaves Castiel to kick off his coat and shoes, returning to his laptop to review the import’s log files.

Castiel settles on the couch close by, perched anxiously on the edge of a cushion. “I got ahold of Uriel and informed him of the problem. Anael’s also aware that we’ll need her help tonight.”

“You put in an emergency work order for this?” Dean asks, jotting down the number Castiel recites. “‘Kay. Let her know she can test it as soon as I put the order’s status to On Alpha. Who will be testing once she confirms it’s ready for beta?”

“Hester can,” Castiel replies, “although she’s not familiar with these maintenance requests.”

“No problem. I can give her a rundown.” Dean jots more notes. “She just has to run the legacy application and then web services, checking the groups match what we see in the tables.”

“Good.” Castiel exhales harshly, his chin bowed on top of his folded hands. He looks drawn down and miserable, his naturally strong features now softened by despair.

“Hey.” Dean swivels his chair around, nudging Castiel’s leg with his socked foot. “It’s not that bad.”

Castiel snorts. His expression grows rueful. “We have an hour and a half maximum to get everything tested before production.”

“Yeah, but Jo’s a maniac.” Dean grins, imagining the over-the-top act Anael likely put on when Castiel broke the news to her. “Give her ten minutes and she’ll have it verified just fine. She knows these maintenance updates like the back of her hand.”

“But what if something goes wrong? What if the converter fails, or the file formats are unacceptable—”

“Hey,” Dean says again, soothing. “Trust me. Maintenance requests are about as routine as they come. They take a while, but they’re easy.”

Castiel’s mouth still twists mournfully. “I hate that I’ve taken your evening with this.”

Dean shrugs. “Not like I was doing much with it.” He motions his chin toward the television, still paused mid-way through an episode.

Castiel tilts his head to look, his neck stretching in an elegant line. Dean’s eyes catch on the apple in his throat, dusted by a five o’clock shadow. A fine skim of sweat has broken out across Castiel’s skin, likely due to nerves.

Dean can relate, though for entirely different reasons.

“Dr. Sexy, M.D.” Castiel scoffs at the television. His smile returns for a fraction of a moment. “Why am I not surprised.”

Dean drops his shoulder, noncommittal in his defense. “Told you I wasn’t busy.”

Castiel’s smile flickers and fades. He glances up. “Did you eat? I didn’t interrupt your supper, did I?”

“What? No, I ate when I got home.” He eyes Castiel shrewdly. “Have _you_ eaten?”

Castiel gives a sheepish look. “I may have forgotten, during everything that’s going on.”

Dean snorts, unsurprised. “You know where stuff is. Help yourself.” He turns around in his chair, hand waving in the general vicinity of the kitchen.

Castiel climbs to his feet, accepting the invitation.

Dean turns his attention back to the compiler, checking on the state of the conversion. The log files for the first file are good, so he copies the new file version into his local directory and boots up a standalone copy of the legacy application. The program chimes with alerts advising of each developer setting that override its usual functionality. Dean clicks on them all in a rush, wanting to cut to the testing.

Behind him, cupboards open and softly close. A glass tings against the countertop, then splashes hollowly as it is filled. Dean hears a pot come out from the cupboard, and maybe a frying pan. A knife clacks against a cutting board. The coiled rings of his stovetop groan with a pot’s added weight.

Halfway through updating the testing instructions on the work order, Dean’s nose comes back online, drawing him away from the screen. He sniffs deeply, scenting garlic and onions and something acidic wafting from the kitchen. Leering back over his shoulder, Dean tries to spy what’s cooking from his poor vista in the living room. “Is that pasta sauce?”

Castiel hums agreement. He holds Dean’s flower pot beneath the kitchen tap, sparing a moment to water his daisies as the meal cooks.

“From _scratch_?” asks Dean.

“Not quite. I’m using a jar of sauce as a base.”

Dean finds himself approaching the kitchen before he even realizes he is standing. He comes up behind Castiel’s shoulder, gazing over it at the pan of red sauce, gently bubbling. Bits of spinach and what Dean assumes is chicken surface as Castiel stirs the pan. On the back burner, a pot of starchy water roils lightly, little bits of bowtie pasta rising to the surface before sinking back down.

Dean huffs lightly. “Didn’t even know I had half these ingredients.”

“I may have raided your freezer,” Castiel murmurs. “The spinach was partly freezer-burnt, but most of it was salvageable.”

“Not surprised,” Dean says. “Must’ve been there since before Sam moved out.”

Castiel pauses in his stirring. “That long?” He stares at the saucepan like he’s contemplating discarding it.

“Kidding.” Dean chuckles, drawing Castiel’s hand off the pan handle. “So I exaggerated a bit.” He takes a spoon from the counter and dips it into the sauce. Breathing over it, he slurps up the sample, then licks the spoon clean. “Better than store-bought.”

“I’d hope so.” Castiel’s mouth twists. “My cooking skills aren’t great, but my pasta dishes tend to be…”

“Delicious?” Dean can’t help it; the stovetop smells divine.

Castiel shrugs. “Passable.”

Laughing, Dean wanders back to his laptop, giving Castiel the space he needs in the kitchen. The converter continues to whir through the files Dean gave it, the automated process moving smoothly through its second batch of tables.

When it comes time for Castiel to drain the pasta, hot water splashing and filling the sink with steam, Dean flags two fingers behind his head. “A bowl for me too, please.”

“I thought you ate already.”

Dean’s stomach grumbles. “Me too. Second stomach says otherwise.”

When the meal is ready, he ditches his laptop in favor of eating with Cas in the living room on the couch. Castiel fills two standard glasses with water from the kitchen, then returns with a pair of Dean’s fancier glasses, the bottle of wine squeezed tight in the crook of his elbow. Their food steams in bows on the coffee table.

“It’s not the pasta night I envisioned,” says Castiel, “but still a good enough excuse to break out the wine.”

Dean fetches the corkscrew from the junk drawer and digs through the fridge for the jar of shakeable parmesan lodged in the back of the bottom shelf. Castiel handles the uncorking while Dean coats his pasta with an extra layer of cheese. With Castiel’s approval, he unpauses the television, and they both settle in to watch Dr. Sexy as they eat.

The meal carries them through the tail end of the current episode. When the next begins to play, neither Dean nor Cas raises an argument to stop it. Instead, Castiel settles more deeply onto the couch, his knee jostling rhythmically, legs askew in front of him. Dean feels Cas’ nerves as acutely as his own; the need to reassure him comes just as strong as his desire not to needlessly hash over the details of the discovered production bug.

“This, uh. This episode.” Dean clears his throat, not really sure where he’s going with this. “Um. It’s the first foreshadowing we get that Dr. Hegel is going to leave the show.”

Castiel nods as though this is an interesting tidbit, not something even fans in passing already know. “I was always so disappointed with what they did with Lizzie’s character. I mean, she fell in love with a hallucination that was also supposed to be her fiancé?” He shakes his head. “Completely unrealistic.”

Cas, having Dr. Sexy opinions? Despite himself, Dean’s heart swoons. He punches those feelings down, snorting a laugh to quell the mood. “You don’t come to Dr. Sexy for realism. But yeah, it was weird. Although,” he adds, “I wasn’t mad to see Ennis back on the show again.”

A brow raises Dean’s way. “You liked her fiancé?”

Dean shrugs. “Wasn’t hard on the eyes, that’s for sure. Why? You got a problem with him?”

“I don’t know. It’s just strange somehow, hearing you say that.” Castiel’s mouth twitches. “I thought Cain was more your type.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’ve seen Ennis, right? Dark hair, blue eyes? A sexy smattering of stubble?” He shrugs, grinning. “Hard to say no to that.”

Castiel looks away from the television, staring shrewdly at Dean instead of the screen.

Face flooding with heat, Dean lifts his wine cup as a distraction. He drains it more quickly than he should. He coughs through the dregs, setting the glass down roughly on the coffee table. “I, uh. The converter. Gonna check if—yeah.”

The wine rushes to his head as he stands, although he manages to reach his laptop with minimal stumbling. His hip bumps the table as he attempts to sit in its chair. Chatter from the television fills the silence.

“Last file’s been converted,” Dean calls over his shoulder. After a couple minutes spent sanity testing the legacy application, he updates the work order status, moving its assignee over to Anael. He updates their messenger app for good measure. “Done. Now to wait and see what Jo says.”

Dean shuffles back to the couch, slapping his hands down atop his thighs. He lands on the cushion closer to Castiel than he means to be, knee knocking against Castiel’s thigh. But it would be weird to get up and readjust, so he stays in place.

The television plays on. Lizzie Hegel gets caught tampering with the dementia trial results by Dr. Piccolo, and their friendship grows strained. Three episodes from now, Dr. Hegel will be summarily written out of the show.

His pocket vibrates. Dean digs out his phone. “Anael’s signed off on the bug. We should be in the clear to finish before production happens.”

Castiel lets loose a long breath. “What happens next? Do we need to advise anybody else?”

Dean lifts his hands, busy tapping out a message on his cellphone. “Hester’s already testing. I gave her head’s up that I was moving the fix to alpha and beta at the same time. Jo’s just quicker because she’s practiced at it.”

His phone returns to his pocket, nudging his leg into Castiel’s thigh again. They sit there, overly close. Ellen Piccolo sobs in a stairwell while the soundtrack swells dramatically, accentuating her despair.

Castiel makes a noise low in his throat. “How much trouble do you think I’m going to be in for this?”

Dean narrows his gaze. “Why d’you think you’re gonna get in trouble? You caught the bug before it went to production.”

“Maybe. It’s just...” Castiel’s mouth narrows into a tempting pink line, and Dean has to remind himself to concentrate. “We needed overtime to fix it, and not just within the legacy team.” Sighing, his head falls back roughly into the cushions, tipped onto the back of the couch. His expression sours. “Products and implementation will want to know why an emergency work order was logged. I’ll probably be pulled in front of the board to explain what went wrong.”

“That’s not fair,” Dean argues.

Castiel shrugs his whole shoulder into the couch, seemingly resigned to accepting his fate. His movements are looser than usual, perhaps likewise affected by the wine. His brow is stormy and mournful in turns, the twist of the light changing his expression from potent to laid open and bare.

Dean’s gaze dips lower, dragging along his throat.

Castiel’s tie is gone. He must have stripped it off some time during the evening, maybe while he was cooking.

Dean wasn’t paying attention then, but he is aware of it now, how without the tie Castiel’s collar hangs open, his chest exposed. The bottom of his throat lays bare, a square of tanned skin spread open for the taking.

Dean drags his attention upward.

Castiel is watching him closely in turn.

Dean would later blame the drink for what he does next.

He reaches out to Castiel, touching him on the edge of his stormy brow, his touch drawing down toward his cheek. All his nerves narrow to the blade of one finger, ghosting lightly around one luminous blue eye.

But then his fingertip glides down, glancing over a strong cheekbone. He scrapes over stubble, and the sensation is so exciting that Dean cups his hand to Castiel’s cheek, the feel of him thrumming through his skin. His thumb meets cheekbone again, sweeping over it, Castiel’s cheek hot where it tucks into his palm.

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath.

Dean finds himself intractably drawn in.

The first touch of their mouths comes as a gentle graze of lips. Dean’s breath hitches, pulling back, disbelieving, but he cannot stop himself from pressing in again. Castiel’s mouth touches his, firmer this time, more assured. Dean tilts his head, adjusting the angle, leaning in to the hand Castiel has moved to cup his face.

Fingertips touch the hair at his temple, brush over the shell of his ear. Dean kisses harder, opening his mouth. He licks his lips between one kiss and the next. A tentative touch of tongue splits him open at the seam, and Dean surrenders wholly to the sensation, sucking in a quick breath as Castiel’s tongue slides in against his.

Castiel clings to the back of his head, fingertips angling him closer, his nose brushing Dean’s cheek. Stubble rasps pleasurably against his chin. A hand slides down the side of Dean’s neck, pushing beneath the hem of his shirt. Weight comes with it, and Dean finds himself being pressed back into the couch cushions, Castiel moving atop him in his wake.

Dean could get used to this—the feel of Castiel’s mouth, the dry but supple press of his lips, the thrill that hits his belly when nails scrape the nape of his neck—but a sudden buzzing breaks them apart.

Dean has to push Castiel back in order to hastily stand. He stumbles away from the couch, hands trembling as he answers his phone.

“Hey, Hes,” Dean says, out of breath. His heart is pounding, loud enough to shake the room. He crosses to the laptop, his back kept toward Castiel.

Dean hardly hears a word Hester says, her questions answered on autopilot. Something about the bug testing well, and Uriel being informed to proceed with the sync from beta and subsequent deployment to production. Dean thanks her, then hangs up, his heart tripping through his chest.

The back of his hand presses against his mouth, his lips thrumming with what happened.

Fuck. What has he done?

The wine. He can blame it on the wine. He can say that it’s late, and he was drunk. That he shouldn’t have done what he did.

He is afraid to turn around, but when Dean does, Castiel is there waiting for him—standing too close, as is his wont. His gaze is hooded, his eyes a heavy blue as he looks up through his dark lashes. His face is a stormcloud once again.

Dean blurts out, “I’m sorry—” but Castiel has no patience for it.

With both hands wrapped solidly around Dean’s head, Castiel pulls him down and kisses him.

Dean’s apology quivers out as an ungodly noise.

Castiel holds him steady, as he shakes apart. Dean parts his lips, chasing what they had only moments ago, and Castiel’s tongue plunges in beside his, ready for the taking.

It’s warm and wet and entirely overwhelming. Dean touches him, hands rising, unbidden, to wrap around Castiel, to hold him. Planting firmly on his waist, feeling the strength of him. Rising up Castiel’s sides. His chest.

Dean moans as the solid weight of Castiel pushes him into the nearest surface that can take him. His desk jostles, pens falling awry. He lands solidly on his ass, his balance wavering. He grips Castiel tighter, tugging their bodies together.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, pulling back enough that their brows might touch. Castiel’s mouth gusts warmly against his cheek, fast and hungry. Dean stares at the square of bare skin exposed by Castiel’s collar and, chasing impulse, leans down and gives his throat a wet, solid nip.

Castiel jolts and, cursing, struggles to regain equilibrium. A hand plants roughly beside Dean on the desk. With his other, he guides Dean’s head back to where it was, cradled gently beside the column of his throat.

“Please,” he breathes.

Dean needs no further encouragement. He rakes his teeth along the tendon straining in Castiel’s neck, scraping up through stubble. Castiel breathes hotly into the side of Dean’s head, mouth close to his ear, tickling the short hairs there.

“Keep going,” he groans, so Dean does, nipping at the bolt of his jaw, planting heavy kisses into the soft, delicate skin behind Castiel’s ear. His fingers scrape along Castiel’s sides, feeling the muscle stretched taut over ribs. He untucks the back of Castiel’s shirt and plunges his hands inside, feeling the heat of his lower back, fingers swelling over the generous curve of Castiel’s ass.

Dean parts his legs as Castiel rocks forward, his cock thick and rubbing along Dean’s upper thigh. Dean scoots forward along the desk edge, enough that their bodies can press firmly together. He rolls his hips gently, strength building as Castiel gives a pleased noise and thrusts his hips in turn.

“Bedroom?” Castiel asks, and Dean breathes, “Yeah.”

He can do that. They can make this mistake together.

He kisses Castiel a while longer, savoring the feeling, the reciprocation; the weight of Castiel in his arms. Then he surges up off the desk, pressed bodily into Castiel, and walks him backward through the bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friends, do me a favour and drop me an ask on tumblr with a number between 1-165 before you go? I'm making a prompt list for writing in October, and the more secret prompts you suggest, the better! ty ♥


	11. INTEGRATION ELEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence lapses between them. Dean knocks his foot playfully against the side of Castiel’s desk. “I, um. Missed you. This morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the last day of filming, we're posting early~

After.

 _After_.

They strip the sheets off the bed, relegate them to the floor with the rest of their clothes. Dean comes back from the bathroom with a washcloth in hand, passes it to Cas with a kiss pressed to his temple. Once they both are clean, they change into boxers Dean digs out from the dresser, and sleep beneath the stack of blankets let loose by the night.

With the lights off, the only glow remaining comes from between the curtains rustling at the window, the bottom inch cracked open to allow in a breeze. The sounds and scents of the city night stir the room as they drift off to sleep.

Castiel rests his head atop the pillow beside his, the one Dean normally stuffs against his chest and clings to with both arms. It’s been awhile since he’s had anyone to share it with. He watches the way Castiel falls into it, settling heavily on his side, blinking back at Dean with a guileless smile on his face. He watches those blue eyes close, his breaths slow, growing even.

He catches when Castiel’s neck stiffens, shoulders rising in his sleep.

“Hey.” Dean touches Castiel’s shoulder, the skin there warm. Lets his hand slip upward, fingers carding through dark hair. Even though fear begs him to shut his mouth, he whispers, “What’s wrong?”

Castiel shrugs. He leans into Dean’s hand, cups it with his own. “Tomorrow.”

Dean hums. “Tomorrow.” His fingers dig small circles into the back of Castiel’s neck, trying to relieve its tension. How he wishes today could stretch on forever.

It doesn’t work. “Do you think—will it be Bart that comes after me?”

Dean exhales through his nose. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen anything like this happen before.”

“Nobody’s let a known bug get to production?”

Dean snorts, soft. “Nobody’s bothered trying to fix it before it gets out the door.”

Castiel falls silent. Dean can hear him thinking, can feel his thoughts thrumming in the pulse beneath his fingers. “Hey, c’mon. They should be thanking you, if anything. You saved the day.”

Castiel makes a noise, something as unimpressed as it is unhappy. He buries his cheek into the pillow, hiding himself away.

Dean draws back his hand, hiding it beneath the blankets. He watches Castiel calm himself, alone, all the warmth of his demeanor falling away.

The longer Castiel remains quiet, the more Dean worries. Gripping the edge of his comforter, he lifts up his bundle of blankets. A gap of air opens between them; a question posed.

Castiel answers it by inching closer, abandoning his pillow in favor of Dean’s own. Dean lifts his chin, making room for Cas to tuck his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. His arms drape around Castiel, holding him close, foregoing half of the bed entirely as they wrap themselves up in each other.

“Thank you,” Castiel murmurs, mouth pressed against Dean’s throat.

Dean nods, hair ruffling against his cheek. He drags his fingers up the length of Castiel’s spine. Lets an ankle hook around a calf muscle here, a hand around a hip there. He feels the weight of Castiel’s body relax, increment by increment, into him, until they are merely two souls pressed together, embracing the comfort of each other in the night.

* * *

In the morning, Dean wakes slowly to a hand sifting gently through his hair.

“Mmm.” He pushes his face into the pillow, muscles tensing as he stretches. He finds his body aches in a variety of pleasant ways.

“Dean,” a voice says quietly.

Dean cracks an eye open, casts it over to Castiel. He is kneeling by the side of Dean’s bed, disheveled but dressed, backlit by the sliver of light escaping from the dislodged bathroom door. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee stirs a few more brain cells into waking.

“I have to go,” Castiel murmurs, still touching Dean’s hair. Carding, soft as a breeze.

Dean groans low in his throat.

Castiel chuckles. “I know, I agree. But I need to change my clothes before work.”

A mouth brushes against Dean’s temple. Castiel hangs there, whispering straight into him, “Do you want me to make you some coffee?”

Dean hums something that could be considered affirmative. But as much as he loves coffee, he loves sleeping more.

His bed is warm, cozy enough for two. He has no intentions of leaving it for something as mundane as a work day.

Fabric shuffles. His next bleary eyeful catches Castiel rising to full height.

“Okay. See you soon,” Castiel murmurs. His fingertips linger by Dean’s temple, dragging slowly out from his hair.

The soft sound of footfalls. The quiet locking of a door.

Dean flaps an arm over the side of his bed and rolls fully onto his stomach, succumbing once more to sleep.

When he wakes, he won’t remember the soft smell of Castiel, shower-fresh, leaning in above him, or the offer for coffee. He will only know what he’s lost by the scent that lingers on his skin, on the sheets. By the fresh pot growing stale in the kitchen.

Above all, Dean will know his bed is cold and empty, made a mournful place without its second set of breaths.

* * *

Dean arrives late to work, again, his hair shower-damp but otherwise styled, mindset somewhere between electrified and frazzled. His alarm went off too many times this morning, the snooze button revisited more often than his accustomed fare.

Not one bone in his body wanted to come into work today. The only thing convincing him to do so is that he’ll get to see Castiel there.

Dean could’ve been angry that Cas was gone before he woke up, but truth be told it was a relief to be alone for a while, reliving the highlights of what happened without another to bear witness. He got to spend his morning routine humming Zepp tunes to himself and half-stepping through memories of the night before, his grin open and foolish, all without worrying how it might come across to Cas.

He doesn’t want to come on too strong, too soon, but hell—if Cas feels the same way as him? Dean could walk on clouds all day. He’ll do whatever he has to to hold Cas like that again.

His high spirits were enough that he could even forget about last night’s emergency defect, for a while, his mind instead drifting pleasantly in the shower, hands revisiting the places Castiel had touched him, gliding from hickey to hickey. But then the fact of the defect came crashing back, dumped on him like a bucket of ice water, Castiel’s fears rekindled as his own.

Dean might have been the steady hand Castiel needed last night, but he’s the one shaking this morning. His steps are a passing storm through the cubicle floor. As he disappears into his office, the door closes with a heavy thud. His stomach is too tied up in knots, roiling with fear of what will happen now that production has been opened to their clients.

The first death knell strikes when Anael approaches his office, her morning cup of coffee clutched in hand. She knocks once, then enters without waiting. Dean has hardly had enough time to set up his laptop before she asks, “So what was that about last night? Who’s in trouble?”

Dean rubs his neck, his chin twisted to the side until the joints crack. “No one,” he says. “It was just a documentation mistake.”

Anael’s lips purse. “I doubt Raphael sees it that way.” She motions towards the laptop. “Check your emails. The CAB team has called us all upstairs. They want to go over what the fuck happened to production last night.”

She waits while Dean, groaning, pulls up his inbox to confirm what she’s saying. Sure enough, there’s a meeting invitation awaiting his response, sent out from the members of the central analysis board. The CAB consists of faces Dean seldom sees, much the way he prefers it: upper, upper management only met with underlings who fucked up in incredible, unprecedented ways.

“But nothing fucking happened,” Dean complains, pushing his laptop away. “We caught the bug before it got out the door. Uriel didn’t even have to delay prod to include the fix.”

“I know,” Anael says. “But Raph will have to explain to the board why an emergency work order was logged and four people are expecting a night’s worth of OT to be paid.”

Dean sighs heavily. “Yeah,” he says. He knows. It’s not enough that they averted a crisis; they have to justify wanting to avert it in the first place.

“Yeah. See you at ten,” Anael says ominously, exiting his office as succinctly as she entered.

Dean turns back to his inbox and accepts the meeting invitation, leaving the response box empty in his reply.

* * *

Whether by chance or design, Dean doesn’t get to see Castiel before the CAB meeting. Not that he doesn’t try messaging him, through both private and work messenger apps. Cas doesn’t answer, and Dean doesn’t have time to chase him; they both have too busy a morning to talk about what was going to happen in the meeting.

The closer they get to the meeting, the more Castiel’s absence weighs on Dean like a stone. Were they supposed to get their stories straight before meeting the board? Just how much trouble are they all in?

As it is, Dean collects Anael on his way toward the elevator, the pair of them exiting the legacy floor together. Upward button pressed, Dean spares one last glance toward Castiel’s office, seeking comfort, but his office is disappointingly empty, the way it’s been all morning.

Hester and Uriel join them in the elevator, a floor up. Beyond exchanging idle pleasantries they all fall silent, nerves collectively kicking in as the elevator carries them upwards again.

Down the hall, to the boardroom. Inside, Raphael sits on the far side of the table with the other CAB members, a few of them familiar faces from the monthly products and implementation review. Naomi and Marv flank Raphael’s left, with Bart and Zach sitting farther down from them. Three other executive members fill out the seats along Raphael’s other side, people Dean doesn’t see much of beyond the occasional press release.

Most surprising of all, to Raphael’s immediate right sits Michael Charleson, their CEO.

Across from him sits Castiel.

Dean sucks in a breath. He can count the number of times he’s been in the CEO’s presence on a single hand, and none of those occasions has been on pleasant terms.

Castiel glances back as the rest of them filter in around the conference table. His shoulders are atypically hunched in, making him appear smaller than he should.

Indignation flares within Dean, and before he realizes it he’s elbowing his way into the seat beside Castiel, nudging Anael away from her intended chair. Hester and Uriel take up the seats on Castiel’s far side, the two of them looking far more relaxed than Castiel has a hope of being while he’s here.

Raphael clears his throat. “Since everyone is now here, let’s get started.”

Without further pleasantries, the meeting begins.

* * *

It could have gone worse, though Dean takes no comfort from this fact.

What should have been an inquiry turns out to be a scene from a courthouse drama. Dean feels his pulse pick up, his heartbeat building in his ears. His palms grow clammy, his focus weak. He loses track of what’s being said, picking up instead on the terse tones of voice, the humble murmurs coming from his side of the table.

Questions from the board come out as accusations, the meeting playing out as an interrogation of the legacy team. It’s little more than an excuse for Raphael to berate them—to berate Cas, specifically. As he continues to rake Cas over the coals, it becomes obvious that Dean and the rest of the team aren’t needed here, except maybe to bear witness to the humiliations being doled out.

Naomi raises a concise explanation as to how the defect should have never advanced to pre-production in the first place.

Bart makes Castiel explain his faults in great detail, pushing him to explain how he hopes to avoid similar circumstances in the future.

Even Zach— _Zach_ , of all people—chimes in to tell Cas how he should have stayed in better touch with his team.

Castiel accepts all their suggestions with grace, following each tirade with a solemn “Thank you.” He answers all their inquiries in a quiet voice, his hands fumbling together beneath the table. Dean can sense the tremble in his arms, the way Castiel’s fists tighten in his lap. A strong urge within him wants to reach out and comfort him. A bigger part of him knows what a mistake that would be to make.

Without a word, Michael oversees the duration of the questioning, sitting silent and imposing, his gaze never once straying from Castiel.

For the first time, Dean looks more deeply at him, trying to place where he’s seen Michael’s face before, outside the context of work. There is a sense of something more there, something familiar in the shape of Michael’s jaw line, the color and texture of his hair.

Something he gleaned from a picture ages ago, propped up on a dresser across from the foot of his sickbed.

Dean glances between the two sides of the boardroom, gaze flickering between Castiel and their CEO, piecing together what his gut knows to be true.

 _They’re family_ , Dean realizes with a jolt—Michael is one of two siblings he’d seen crowding Cas in a framed photograph in Castiel’s room.

Though he’d been smiling in that photo, the version of Michael Charleson here today is a blank wall, indifferent to the humiliations his colleagues are putting his stepbrother through.

Michael’s gaze is cold and unflinching, his blue eyes kniving their way through Castiel.

Something heavy settles in Dean’s stomach, thrumming like ice in his veins. Could he act like this, if it were Sam in Cas’s shoes? If it were Adam, sitting across from Dean, having caught—having _fixed_ a mistake he made?

His face flushes with the indignity of it. No fucking way would Dean do this to anybody, regardless of whether he called them kin.

They may have been raised as brothers, but Michael shows none of the warmth—the _humanity_ —Dean has come to lo—to admire in Castiel.

Fuck. He just hopes Cas makes it out of this okay.

* * *

After.

 _After_.

The CAB team clears the room first, followed quickly by Hester, Uriel, and Anael. Dean watches them go, reluctant to join them in the hall. Just the thought of having to small talk with any of them after that shitshow grabs Dean’s guts and gives them an awful twist.

With a couple deep, gathering breaths, Castiel manages to stand stiffly, and push his chair back into place beneath the table. Dean hovers close by Castiel’s side. He’s not sure what he expects to happen, but Cas feels—fragile. Breakable. Like the wrong look at him might scatter Castiel to the wind.

In the hall, Dean murmurs beneath his breath, “Why didn’t you rat Naomi out?”

Castiel shakes his head, a sharp glance twisted over his shoulder. A quick look confirms that Michael is there behind them, lingering at the cusp of the boardroom, eyes on Castiel. Dean shuts his mouth and follows suit.

Castiel does not look back at his brother, does not even speak until after they’ve escaped the elevator onto the legacy cubicle floor.

“Come with me,” says Castiel, tilting his head toward his office. They cross the floor quickly, garnering looks from Miriam and Inias. Miriam goes so far as to open her mouth, readying a question, but Dean makes a curt hand motion and doesn’t spare another look her way.

Inside his office, Castiel closes the door behind Dean and, with a heavy breath, collapses against the door.

His forehead thumps against the wood; his hand shakes on the doorknob. Dean hovers offside, looking for clues as to badly Castiel might be melting down. But Castiel’s eyes are open, drawn to the floor. He is just breathing, body trembling, staring down into middle distance.

Dean shifts his weight, uncertain what he should do. He settles for pulling one of the guest chairs up close to Castiel, then coaxing him to sit down. Dean takes the second chair and pulls it up flush beside Cas, close enough that their elbows bump together on the arm rests.

Castiel lasts a minute before his body crumples. He slumps back in his seat, head dropping against the low back of the chair.

“So your brother is…?” Dean begins.

Eyes closed, Castiel nods stiffly. “CEO.” He presses a hand to the middle of his brow, eyebrows pinched around the thumb rubbing at the crease between them.

Dean brushes his hands together. “He sure is…” He trails off, unsure whether Castiel really needs to hear the insults Dean might volley on his behalf.

Castiel sighs. His face is flat, difficult to read. “It could have been much worse. But it still was terrible.” His mouth twists into an uneven line. “And it isn’t over yet.”

Dean makes a noise, curious, in his throat. “What makes you think that?”

Castiel continues, “He’ll have hated the fact I got him dragged into an emergency CAB meeting. Our names, brought together like this. I’ll have besmirched him in the board’s eyes.”

“Even though it’s Naomi’s fault,” Dean says. “For not communicating the change.”

Castiel sighs again, but he doesn’t argue what Dean’s saying. He drops his hand from his brow. With his eyes still closed, he blindly seeks out Dean’s hand.

Fire and light hit Dean’s gut, as Castiel’s fingertips ghost over the back of his hand. Their fingers interlock, threading together. Dean darts a glance behind him to ensure the blinds are closed, that no one on the cubicle floor is available as a witness. His palms feel sweaty as he squeezes Castiel’s hand in his, feels him squeeze tightly in return.

Silence lapses between them. Dean knocks his foot playfully against the side of Castiel’s desk. “I, um. Missed you. This morning.”

He earns that sidelong glance he enjoys so much, when it comes from Cas. This time, it is accompanied by the softest grin. “I would’ve stayed if I could.”

Dean snorts. “Should’ve skipped coming in today. Wasn’t worth leaving the bed.”

“Maybe you could have.” Castiel’s smile fades. “Heaven knows I couldn’t.”

“Hey.” Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s hand. “It’ll be okay. Whatever Michael decides to do, we’re still here here for you.” Dean clears his throat, adding quietly, “I’m still here for you.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel lifts their conjoined hands. His lips brush over Dean’s knuckles, pressing in with a soft kiss.

Heat creeps into Dean’s neck and face. He taps his foot against the desk. “So…”

“So,” Castiel agrees.

The office is too formal for the two of them to be here.

“Probably not a good time to tell HR about…” Dean lifts their hands, trying to embody whatever it is he’s trying to say.

Castiel glances down. His grip loosens, just a bit. Dean wishes it had tightened instead.

“Probably not,” Castiel says sadly. “Not yet, at least. Wiser to wait for this storm to die down.”

“Oh.” It hurts more than it ought to, slipping in like a blade straight between the ribs. Dean nods sharply, readjusting in his chair. “Okay. Um. Okay.” He takes back his hand, and stands shakily, legs suddenly quavering. “I’ll just. Yeah.” He gives a pathetic wave toward the door.

“Dean,” Castiel says, reaching for him, and Dean cannot help but allow for the fingers Castiel slides around his wrist, capturing him like a bracelet.

Castiel’s brows are pinched, his eyes hooded and mournful. His words come out haltingly. “I wish it was better timing. That I didn’t have my brother looking at me like I’m…” He drops his gaze. “Maybe once this blows over, we could...?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, though he’s unsure what he’s agreeing to doing. He smiles, flinty and hollow. “Sounds good.”

He nods sharply, refusing to look back as he leaves.

* * *

Nothing immediate changes, even though everything has changed.

Dean’s Friday rolls out ahead of him, much the same as it would any other day post-production. Castiel doesn’t stay late, so Dean doesn’t either. He tries not to read into it, thinking how he’d likewise want to lick his wounds alone at home if he were in Cas’ place.

The weekend comes, and Dean spends too much of it dwelling on the CAB meeting—and worrying about what Castiel had said, after, about Michael seeking retribution. He exchanges his usual text conversations with Sam and Eileen, forwards Castiel Dr. Sexy memes he finds while scrolling for spoilers on the upcoming week’s latest episode. Just trying to keep things light. Casual. The same as usual.

Then Monday comes, and the groove that work has worn into his mind takes over, pulling Dean back onto the same path he’s built himself the past five years.

* * *

More than a week later, his relationship with Castiel remains on the down low. Or maybe they simply return to normal. It’s hard to tell what their normal ought to be. Are they workplace friends who had a one-time fling? A new couple keeping their heads down until the heat from management is gone?

Or are they something less than what they were to begin with? Dean hardly sees Castiel anymore, in the wake of what happened with the CAB.

They never agreed that they should keep things strictly professional, but Dean doesn’t dare ask Castiel about it, not since so much time has passed since Cas basically said they’ll wait and see. But Dean’s noted the way Castiel keeps to himself lately, his office door closed, in the aftermath of being publicly lashed in front of half the team.

Castiel goes back to emailing all his inquiries about their latest scheduled updates. His questions are straightforward and thoughtful, whittled down to a concise core. Dean can tell that he’s spent extra time on every item currently facing legacy, examining each change request with a heightened sense of scrutiny. If there are any future fuckups coming from their team, Castiel certainly won’t be the one responsible for them.

So Dean doesn’t bother him; Castiel has enough on his mind without Dean heaping relationship drama on top of it.

They’ll figure things out. They’ll be okay.

He can wait for Cas.

He’s worth it.

* * *

Then a phone call comes that ruins everything.

“So how is legacy?” Bart asks, after a brief interlude of small talk.

“Fine,” Dean says cautiously. Bart never calls to check in with the project; he just assumes everything is going smoothly until proven otherwise. Dean lays out a condensed list of the change requests they have ongoing, keeping it clipped and precise.

“Good, good,” Bart says absently. “Listen, how busy are you, really? Do you need your whole team to keep on top of things?”

A sinking feeling grows in Dean’s stomach. “Why d’you ask?”

“I need an extra developer on an internal project being announced next week. Can someone be moved onto it? Someone good,” Bart adds, bristling Dean with the implied insult.

 _We only have three developers to begin with_ , Dean thinks angrily. “It’d be tight, trying to keep up everything with only two devs.”

“C’mon, Dean. Do you really need everyone you have? Legacy is on the way out anyways.”

A tendril of doubt creeps in. “You can’t take somebody off another team?”

“Nope,” Bart says, too quickly.

Dean sighs. “I guess you could have Inias, if you really needed him…”

“He’s your best?”

“Yes,” Dean lies, uneasy about it. “He’s steady. Will do whatever’s asked of him.”

“Great,” Bart chirps. “We’ll get this ball rolling. Don’t bother breaking the news to Inias. I’ll update you once the schedule is set.”

“Great,” Dean says, less cheerfully. Bart gives his too-bright sign-off. The phone falls limply from Dean’s fingers back into its cradle.

Dean rubs a hand down his face, then scrubs it back through his hair. A harsh breath blows out his nose, as he counts backwards from ten.

Of course Bart can still run circles around Dean, just like old times.

Of course Dean has cheated himself once again.

“Fuck,” he growls aloud, to the emptiness of his office.

It’s only later—much later—that he wonders why Bart called him instead of Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who sent me numbers representing my secret prompt list! I'm still taking more if you're interested, so feel free to drop me an ask before you go. Thank you ♥


	12. CRASH TWELVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kale?” Dean nearly chokes. “You got me eating _kale_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we're reaching the end, I'm speeding up the posting timeline to every other day.

Inias gets stolen from them on some idle Tuesday, snatched up without forewarning by an email sent from Bart. Dean doesn’t even know it has happened until Inias enters his office early afternoon, brows tightened in a frown.

“Is this true?” Inias asks, email pulled up on his cell phone, and Dean’s heart sinks a little, shot down by the somber tone tainting Inias’ usually-easygoing ways.

Dean reviews the email. Curses. The bastard didn’t even carbon-copy in the rest of the team.

“Yeah. Sorry, bud.” Dean feels the weight of reality pressing down, pulling at them both like a stone looped around their necks. His only saving grace is that he knows so little; beyond the call Bart made weeks ago, Dean has been kept just as much in the dark as Inias.

Anael is outraged, once the news breaks out. She places an emergency order for a cake from a bakery down the block, the details of which are settled frighteningly quickly with the employee on the other end of the line. While they’re waiting, Miriam gets a forwarded copy of Bart’s email, its contents plumbed for further insight into Inias’ future. Anael calls up her secret contacts on the other teams, confirming what rumors she can about the move, unveiling what little intel is out there about Inias’ new project. Even Hannah takes her break early to come upstairs, giving a big hug to Inias and promises that their paths will cross again.

Castiel steps out from his office around the time the cake shows up. Dean seeks him out on instinct, catching the way Castiel sidles up to the outskirts of their collective, like he’s unsure whether he belongs in the fray.

Dean comes up beside him, a hapless smile brewing on his face. He bites his cheeks to keep it complacent. “Hey, stranger.”

Castiel smiles, distracted. “What happened?” he murmurs, so Dean leans in close and tells him. Castiel’s mouth flattens, crumpled by more than just the news. “When is Bart taking him?”

“I dunno,” Dean says, the same time as Miriam announces, “Tomorrow, 8 AM.” She pats Inias roughly on the shoulder, and passes him another slice of cake. “Looks like we’re cleaning your desk out today, bub.”

Inias looks around helplessly until Anael pulls out a cardboard box and passes it to him.

The end of day comes. They exchange goodbyes, same as always, parting ways as though the fabric of the team hasn’t irrevocably changed. There’s little time spared on more meaningful farewells; everyone knew this day was coming, the loss of another legacy member, even if they weren’t certain when.

Dean lingers after five, wordlessly wishing for something—but he leaves once he notices that Castiel’s office is dark, emptied out sometime while Dean wasn’t looking. So he drives home in the rain, calls up Sam as soon as he gets home, to break the news about Inias.

“Fuck,” Sam says summarily, “I’m sorry.”

Eileen is at work, and Sam has a rare evening free from the law office. He keeps Dean company while he decompresses, grousing about what happened—grieving it, really, the wound still fresh enough to sting. Sam is a good listener, can humor Dean as long as he needs. But sometimes some genuine advice gets thrown into the mix.

“You can still be friends with him,” Sam says, as if he’s unaware of how Dean’s work and friendship circles almost entirely overlap. “I know you don’t see ‘em outside of work, but you could maybe set up a casual hour with the team on Fridays, meet everyone for drinks?”

Dean hums like he’s thinking about it, even though five years have told him these people only interact with him because they’re getting paid. “I dunno, Sammy. Five o’clock on Friday rolls around and I’m about ready for bed, not shots.” He scrubs a hand down his face, sighing. “The office just leaves me—spent.”

Sam’s expression softens, and Dean feels it like a punch to the gut. The kid is juggling an internship with a high-profile lawyer and then here’s Dean, bitching about forty hours sitting in an office chair.

“Dean, look, I know you like giving every job your all, but you don’t need to put your heart and soul into this position.” Sam cuts off Dean’s attempt to interrupt, continuing, “You’re not the boss, or an entrepreneur. You can take a step back. Let go of the work a bit.”

Head shaking, Dean says, “And when my step back leads to subpar work?”

Sam shrugs. “Just let them be disappointed? I dunno. I’m just asking you to maybe readjust your standards a bit. Give yourself enough slack to have a life outside of the office.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, bitter.

He thinks of Cas. Of the dent his head left on Dean’s pillow.

A life outside the office.

Dean scoffs. “Imagine that.”

* * *

The dust from Inias’ departure settles. Weeks come and go. Dean and Miriam learn to carry the weight of legacy’s development between the two of them.

Life goes on.

And then Castiel calls him aside at the end of day.

It’s a Friday after five, so Dean doesn’t have much on his mind beyond relaxing for the next couple days. He’ll stay inside, avoid the rainy weather. Do some laundry. Dishes. The new season of Dr. Sexy is starting to get good; he might marathon the back catalog again for old time’s sake.

But then Castiel comes out from hiding when Dean is nearly out the door, the elevator kicking open.

“What are you doing tonight?” Castiel asks as he steps into the elevator beside Dean, tugging on his tan overcoat.

Dean gives a lopsided grin, his pulse loudly thumping. “Why, what’re you thinking?”

Castiel shrugs. “Could you join me for supper?”

It’s what Dean has been waiting for—just a moment of time where Castiel is focused solely on him. Dean’s grin widens. “Been a while since we needed to order in. What’s up?”

“It’s not for work,” Castiel says sheepishly. “I meant a meal. At my place.”

Dean blinks. His heart gives a coltish kick. “Your place?”

“You know. My apartment. You’ve been there before.”

Yeah, Dean knows that, but he hasn’t let himself _know_ that fact too deeply. If he thinks too long about the state he was in—that he was a needy, embarrassing house guest who ate Castiel’s food and drank his tea; that he even slept in Castiel’s own clothes, in Castiel’s own _bed_ —he might have an aneurysm.

Castiel’s expression falls as the silence lingers, Dean’s lack of response drawing the corners of his mouth down. “It can wait, if you have other plans.”

“No. No,” Dean says hurriedly. “Was just thinking. What time d’you want me over?”

“Sometime soon? You can come by after you change your clothes.” Castiel’s lips part, a second thought rushing out, impromptu, “But it’s Friday. So if you’d rather go out, or wait until Monday, we can—”

“Cas, Cas—I said it’s cool.” Dean gives a lopsided smirk. “So. Pasta night, the sequel?”

Castiel smiles. “If you’d like.”

“Awesome. See you then.” The elevator chimes, and they part ways, waving to each other across the parking garage.

Throughout the drive home, Dean’s heart thrums with energy and light, its beats kicking brightly in his chest.

All these weeks he’s been left wondering where they stand, but if Cas is asking him over—hell, if he’s cooking Dean supper—then surely they’re still in good standing. Maybe enough time has passed for Castiel to feel good about work again, and if he’s happy about work then maybe he might be ready for—

Well, if all goes well tonight, he might want to go out sometime on an actual date.

Once at his apartment, Dean wastes little time shucking off his work clothes. The shower spurts on, warming up while he frets his way through his wardrobe. His regular off-hours t-shirts and plaids feel too informal for the evening. Dean settles for a sage green henley and jeans, and pulls out his worn leather coat to wear atop it, the single shirt a little naked for his usual wear.

Satisfied, Dean heads to the bathroom and scrubs down in the shower, stepping out after in a cloud of steam. He shaves off his five o’clock shadow and slaps on his nicest aftershave. He picks out his best cologne and dabs it beneath his jawline, then ruffles a hand through his artfully styled hair.

“Good enough,” he tells his reflection, pausing in the hallway mirror on his way out the door. Belatedly, he sees he’s put too much effort into his styling, his smoothed cheeks and softened hair glowing like a neon sign pointing out how badly he wants this to be a date. But it’s too late to change it now; he’ll just have to hope his efforts will be worth it in the end.

In the hall to Castiel’s apartment, Dean picks up the first hints of something garlicky and delicious being cooked. His mouth is watering by time he knocks on the door; he swallows thickly and grins in greeting, as Castiel invites him in.

“It’s not ready yet,” Castiel says, gesturing vaguely around the kitchen. “I’m slow at this, as usual.”

Castiel has yet to change out of work clothes; a pale blue apron is tied over his white button-down. His collar has been loosened, the tie lost somewhere to the apartment, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. But he has doffed his suit jacket and so Dean follows suit, draping his leather jacket over the back of the nearest chair.

Dean takes a seat at the breakfast bar, watching while Castiel moves around the kitchen. He can’t help staring at Castiel’s exposed forearms, the muscles twisting as he darts a wooden spoon gracefully between a pot and a saucepan, stirring the contents of each with an elegant flare.

Dean inhales deeply, humming through his exhale. “Smells great. Need a hand?”

“No, thank you,” Castiel murmurs absently, fixated on a back burner pot threatening to boil. “I’ve put in a lot of practice to get even halfway good at this. I’m not going to let some amateur come in and mess me up.”

“Hey, now,” Dean begins, mock-affronted. His grin grows stronger with the exaggerated wink Castiel gives over his shoulder.

In a spare moment between stirrings, Castiel asks. “Beer? There’s wine, if you prefer.”

Dean shakes his head. “Beer’s good.”

Nodding, Castiel retrieves two beers from the fridge. Condensation beads along the bottles, dripping between his long fingers. Dean watches the way Castiel cracks open the cap to each, his huge hands wiped across the apron at his hip.

_It’s a date_ , Dean thinks suddenly, heartbeat racing. _This is a date_. His mind darts away from the idea only to return to it eagerly, prancing like a dog being promised a walk in the park. His palms break out in nervous sweats; he drags them down the thigh of his jeans.

“So how is Sam?” Castiel asks as he stirs the saucepan.

“Good. Great, actually.” Dean scratches over a scuff in his thumbnail. “He’s almost wrapped up his work placement. Getting ready to go back to classes and finish his last semester.”

“And then the bar exam?”

Dean shrugs. “I guess. Not sure how the whole ‘school’ thing works for that,” he adds, tossing out finger-quotes for emphasis.

Castiel hums. “I remember my work semester. I was placed in a class of eighth-graders.” His mouth cracks with a smile. “I was so nervous, I came home every day pale and ready to throw up.”

Dean cracks a smile. “You survived though.”

“I survived,” Castiel agrees. “I’m sure Sam will too.”

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Don’t think the kid knows how to let go of his caseload yet, but he’ll have to figure it out.”

Castiel hums politely. The pot he collects pours into the sink, clouding the kitchen with a fresh burst of steam. Dean catches a glimpse of rigatoni noodles pouring out before Castiel has tossed them back into the now-emptied pot. In the saucepan is some kind of red sauce, bits of green and brown floating within.

“You weren’t kidding,” Dean muses, “about a pasta night redux.”

“There are about three meals I can cook without burning,” Castiel says, as he pulls a pair of plates out from the cupboards. “You’re lucky this is one of them.”

The saucepan is poured atop the pasta, and Castiel gives it a hearty stirring before he doles out a portion onto each plate. From a bowl offside, he grabs a handful of grated parmesan and sprinkles it on top of each dish, followed by a delicate portion of red pepper flakes. Satisfied, Castiel carries both plates over to the breakfast bar.

The dish Castiel sets before him looks delicious, bits of mushroom and sausage nestled among the massive noodles. The green bits, upon initial nibbling, turn out not to be spinach but—

“Kale?” Dean nearly chokes. “You got me eating _kale_?”

Castiel’s mouth opens, his cheeks paling. “You don’t like it?” He straightens, moving like he’s about to throw the entire dish out.

Dean hauls him back, waves him off. “Are you kidding? This is delicious.” He shovels another forkful into his mouth, shaking his head as he swallows. “Just won’t live it down if Sam hears I ate it.”

Castiel’s laugh becomes a relieved sigh. “I’m glad you like it.”

_More than like it_ , Dean thinks. It’s perfect. “Get you a man,” he mumbles, leading Castiel to laugh out loud.

Cheeks crinkled up to his eyes, Castiel wipes his mouth on a napkin, then drops it back onto the counter. “I wanted to praise you again for how well you handled the P&I meeting this week. Raphael even mentioned being impressed.”

“Huh.” Dean shakes his head. “He never said anything about it to me.”

“No,” Castiel agrees, “but it’s come up more than once. On emails throughout the summer.” His eyes soften, his expression growing warm. “You’re earning a reputation up the chain of command.”

Dean’s mouth dries up. He’s rarely heard nice things said about him at the office. He narrows his eyes. “I thought tonight wasn’t about work.”

Castiel winces, head tilted askew. “Mostly, it isn’t. But there is something important I wanted to discuss with you.”

Dean slows his chewing as the muscles in his back tense up, ratcheting his spine straighter. He has to remind himself that Castiel talking about work is just the same as any of their fast food outings together. It’s a common subject, and only natural that it would come up.

“Dessert?” Castiel motions to Dean’s empty plate, plucking it up. “There’s date squares, brownies, and pie,” he says as he turns his back, heading for the sink.

Dean’s ears prick up. “Pie?”

“Apple,” Castiel says, retrieving a massive pie tin and a knife. “And before you get too excited, it’s store-bought.”

Dean tetches. “Too bad. Hand it over anyways.”

He watches, rapt, as Castiel prepares two plates of pie, the knife he uses flaking through the buttered crust. His fingers wag out at the dish Cas carries, a fat wedge of sugar-encrusted pie sitting atop it, its rich, glazy filling dripping like a golden jewel.

Castiel withdraws the plate at the last second, sending Dean into despair. “Move to the living room, if that’s okay.” He motions with his chin. “Grab the forks and napkins as you go.”

“Aye, aye.” Dean mock-salutes, collecting the cutlery in Castiel’s wake.

They sit side by side on the couch, the living room dimly lit by lamps on the side tables. It’s a cozier space than what they had along the breakfast bar, glances now coming sidelong, elbows close enough to brush together.

Castiel passes over his section of pie, their fingertips brushing. Dean can’t help how his pulse rises in response.

Dean’s fork bites into the dessert, the pie crust flaking into perfection. “Holy shit,” he says. “I take back everything I said.”

Castiel hums agreeably. “This bakery also makes an excellent strawberry rhubarb, if you like that sort of thing.”

Dean merely moans around his forkful, tastebuds bursting like fireworks across his mouth. A private part of him thrills at the pink hue rising on Castiel’s cheeks in response to the noises he’s making, the same part of him that keeps chanting _it’s a date date date date_.

“You remember last month,” Castiel says, a few bites in. “The CAB meeting over that production bug?”

Dean frowns, taken aback by the pivot. “Yeah?”

Fork tines scrape along a plate. “Well, my brother’s punishment has finally come to a head.”

Dean pauses his fork, swallowing his mouthful. He waits for Castiel to finish his current bite, his expression cloudy and unreadable as he chews.

“There’s a new project that Bart is about to announce,” Castiel says. “Some kind of group intended to bridge the gap between an old feature and the new. He wants to pull me onto it.”

Dean feels his face grow cold. He can sense where this is going, but still he refuses to look it in the eye. The thought makes his hands go numb, fear clogging his throat. He doesn’t want to make an assumption, but Cas has brought this up for a reason and so—

Cutlery clatters loudly, his fork having dropped against the plate. Dean’s stomach churns unpleasantly, putting a damper on his appetite. “You’re getting pulled off legacy?”

Castiel’s mouth narrows, twisting apologetically. “Unfortunately. He made it clear I don’t have a say about it, so it must be a direct order from Michael. Especially because my other team members are all contract workers.”

The company only uses contractors when the work they’re given is temporary. Castiel might not be kept on after the project is done.

Dean’s heart thuds, off-rhythm. “You’re getting phased out.”

“I think so.” Castiel nudges what’s left of his pie toward Dean, offering him the last few bites. “My record hasn’t been exemplary enough to justify keeping me, after I’m moved off legacy.” He laughs, humorless. “It’s not like I was trained to be an analyst.”

“That’s bullshit.” Dean drops Castiel’s plate atop his. “You’ve done a damn good job. They have no good reason to get rid of you!”

“Thanks,” Castiel says blandly, “but I doubt my brother thinks the same.”

Dean shakes his head. His fingers are numb, cold. “There’s gotta be something we can do. Some way we can keep you on legacy.”

“I’ve thought about it, and I just don’t see a way,” Castiel says. His resolve hardens. “But just because they’re pushing me off legacy doesn’t mean I’m going to accept it.”

Dean frowns. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m going to quit, Dean.”

Silence.

Haltingly, Castiel adds, “I started job hunting, after that awful meeting with the CAB. And I’ve lined up a new position—with a college, actually.” His mouth twists mournfully. “It’s why I’ve been so… distant, lately. It’s been weighing heavily on my mind. Sorry,” he tacks on, clumsy.

Dean listens to his heartbeat, now roaring in his ears. For a month he’s waited so, so patiently for Cas, and he’s been _job hunting_ this entire time?

A pause, then Castiel says, careful, “I wanted to know, when I put my notice in… Are you okay if I recommend you as my replacement? For legacy’s SA?”

Dean swallows thickly. His pulse drums in his ears, clouding out everything else. He tries to think, but his mind is a red wall, thrumming and blank.

Castiel’s face falls. “I just thought…” His hands fold together in his lap, a thumb running knuckles smooth.

“Yeah,” Dean chokes out, “I know.” His head is shaking, even as he tries telling himself it’s a good thing. So they’re not—okay. Fine. Okay. But if Cas puts his name in, maybe Dean can have that promotion to his dream job. Maybe he gets responsibilities he actually wants. Recognition that he desperately craves.

This is what Dean’s worked for. What he’s wanted, for so long.

And it just doesn’t matter. It sits like a dead bird inside his chest.

“I think you would be really good at it,” Castiel says, quiet, and something within Dean snaps.

“Thanks,” Dean manages. “But I don’t want it.”

So sue him. He likes his hectic little corner of the company. He’d rather keep legacy as-is, rather not see Castiel leave it. Rather keep the project that he and Cas have made rolling a little while longer. Together.

Castiel sighs, lips parting as he inhales, and Dean braces himself for the same arguments he’s already thought up. Except Castiel takes it a step beyond what Dean’s expecting.

“If you don’t want the SA position, then you should consider finding a job someplace else too.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “ _What_?”

“You have so much talent,” Castiel says, hurried, “and it’s being wasted under Raphael’s vision for you—”

“ _Wasted_? What—” Dean swallows dryly. “Cas, I’m not—”

But Castiel nudges closer, taking Dean’s hands. His eyes shine with an earnest glow. “You’re capable of doing so much more, Dean. I saw it when we first met, and I see it every day.”

“But I don’t,” Dean says limply, tugging at his grip. “I’m not…”

“You can do it, I know you—”

“No, no.” Dean shakes his head. “I mean—shit, Cas, listen. I don’t want you to leave legacy... I like working with you.”

Castiel’s expression softens, turning fond. He touches Dean’s cheek. “I know. I do too.” His hand falls, soft smile fading. “But it isn’t up to me. And I’d rather get out before Michael can make his final blow.”

“Maybe that isn’t gonna happen,” Dean insists. He squeezes Cas’ hands, saying, “It’s all just speculation, right? So you’re on a new project, sure, but maybe you’ll get to be our SA again, after, and we’ll…” He trails off, snared by the mournful look Castiel gives.

“I know my brother, Dean. Michael is not going to leave me in this position unscathed.” Castiel brushes his thumbs over the back of Dean’s hands, clasping them lightly. “Take the weekend to think it over. I’ll be handing in my notice sometime next week, before my replacement talks can begin.” Gently, he adds, “I want to put your name in, as long as it’s okay with you.”

Dean shuts his eyes, exhales harshly. His body goes cold, thinking about how wrong he’s been about this whole evening.

“I don’t need an answer tonight,” Castiel says again. “Just—think about it.”

The pieces of Dean’s heart grind together, crumbling, small. “So this is why you haven’t—why we haven’t…” He squeezes Castiel’s hands, trembling. “This is why you don’t want me. It’s just an office fling.”

Recognition flickers in Castiel, pinching his brows. He holds Dean’s hands more tightly, fingers turning white. “No, that isn’t right. I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, sarcastic. “The work comes first.” He stands, his hands unceremoniously pulled from Castiel’s. “Go ahead, Cas. Put my name in. See how far that goes.”

“Dean, please—”

“I should head home now,” Dean says loudly, snatching up their plates. He studiously avoids Castiel’s gaze. “Thank you for supper.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says achingly, but Dean cuts him off with a clipped “Goodnight.” He collects his jacket as he passes it, dirty plates clattering to the counter in his wake.


	13. DISCONNECT THIRTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You missed the cake,” Castiel said, stepping forward, “so I brought you a slice.”

Castiel breaks the news to the team on Monday.

He waits until the afternoon break has collected them at the coffee cubby—Anael for another cup of her yerba maté tea blend, Miriam with her plain old Colombian, black—before announcing that he’s put in his two weeks notice.

“Aw, fudge.” Miriam’s expression crinkles with what might be amusement as easily as genuine disappointment. “Just when I was starting to like you, you go and take off on us.”

“Unfortunately, the feelings aren’t mutual.” Castiel’s mouth twitches, one corner moving upward, but it’s giveaway enough that Miriam punches him gently in response. His gaze casts over to Dean’s office, but Dean ducks away before he can see him.

Dean’s fine watching the trio chatter from a distance, hashing out how to handle things now that Inias is also gone. He figures that it’s the kindest gesture he can do for Cas: waiting until the crowd has dispersed before refilling his cup. Castiel has been cloistered away in his office all day anyways, phone held to his ear every time Dean crossed the floor to sneak a glance. Approaching the coffee cubhole now would only make things more awkward between them.

He hasn’t responded to any of Castiel’s messages, not since their Friday ended on such a sour note. The foul taste of it swept through his entire weekend, rotting any sweet thing Dean tried to do for himself. By time Monday came around, Dean could hardly drag himself out of bed, knowing his time with Castiel had a countdown on it.

Castiel would be leaving him—them. How was Dean supposed to respond to a thing like that? Especially when Cas doesn’t want anything from him—doesn’t even want to be _with_ him, in any sense of the word.

As a coworker, Dean is sad to be losing a great colleague. As a friend, he’s happy Castiel is moving on to better things. But as… something more? Something that they could be? Or could have been?

He’s devastated.

Except he doesn’t have the right to react like that.

It’s a small comfort, reminding himself that it probably wouldn’t have worked out anyways. Dean has a rule against dating coworkers, after all. He needs to remain professional if he’s ever going to be promoted. A workplace entanglement just shows his head isn’t in the right place.

So it’s over. Dean can read the signs well enough to know that Castiel has written off their night together, chalked it up to being overtired, or stressed, or drunk. Dean wishes he could do the same, clinging to whichever excuse might take the sting out of the fact that it won’t be happening again.

Which is too bad. Dean thought they made a pretty good pair, both in and out of the office. They were something that deserved more than a one night stand.

As it is, he can’t talk about it with Cas. He can’t stomach the thought of reaching out to find Castiel is only wanting closure before he moves on.

They go back to being coworkers, nothing more. Just the way Dean should have let it be.

* * *

From what Dean can tell, observing from afar, Castiel isn’t having a great time with management now that his resignation has been put in.

Clues come up via email.

The passive-aggressive snark seeping into Bart’s phrasing, when he announces officially that Castiel has resigned.

The sudden vested interest from Adler regarding legacy’s day to day, asking Dean for feedback regarding Castiel’s work performance in particular for the past couple months. Hard evidence and paper trails that might speak poorly about their soon-to-be ex-SA.

Hell, even Anael has been catching the occasional hint of turmoil through the rumor mill. Dean keeps an eye out for whenever she’s about to refill her coffee, his ears pricking up when she gossips about what’s happening in upper management regarding Castiel.

“Bart’s really pissed,” Anael tells him outright, when Dean can’t help but invite her to his office. She stirs sugar into her cup, preening as she’s prodded for intel. “He’s asking around for details around who just hired Cas, how long ago he started job hunting. Cas must’ve been honest about it—the idiot—because I heard that Bart went straight to the place hiring him and threatened them for poaching Cas.”

“What the hell?” Dean’s grip on his coffee cup falters, slackening with shock. His gut clenches with sympathy and secondhand fear.

“Right?” Anael licks clean her stir stick, then tosses it into the trash. “Apparently he argued that the exclusivity contract Cas signed prevents him from working in administration for two years—which is an overreach, if you ask me.”

“Agreed.” Dean nods heartily. “It blocks the industry, not the job description.”

“That’s what I said,” Anael replies. “So when that didn’t work, Bart gave this really awful performance review, just totally unprompted. Like that would somehow make them believe he wanted Cas back working for him?” She rolls her eyes. “What a shitshow.”

“So they’re keeping Cas?” Dean asks, when Anael doesn’t continue.

Anael frowns. “I think so? I mean, next week he’s outta here. Doesn’t really matter where he’s going to next, right?”

“Right,” Dean says slowly. Not everyone is invested in what happens to departing coworkers. He lets Anael get back to work, thanking her for her time.

If he were smart, Dean would do the same thing that Anael has already done: accept that Castiel is leaving, wish him well, and turn his focus back onto who will be their next SA, the same as he would for any other new hire.

But this is Cas. He texts horrible puns and adds stupid emojis to his messages. He drinks tea from a cowbee mug and makes soup when Dean gets sick. He offers quiet reassurances to the team and goes the extra mile, trying to ensure that everybody is looked after and not dealing with too much stress.

Cas is good, and sweet, and kind. He treated the team like family.

Dean doesn’t have it in him to accept his loss just yet.

* * *

The week passes, then the next, and then suddenly Dean doesn’t have a choice: Castiel’s final day with the team has come.

What’s left of legacy throws Castiel a party. Hannah sneaks up from the break room with a marble sheet cake balanced between both hands, its edges piped with fluffy white icing, a message scrawled on the top wishing Castiel a bon voyage from the office. Anael hands out cups of soda, and Miriam sticks a funny paper hat atop Castiel’s head, as if they’re celebrating his birthday instead of his resignation.

Even Inias manages to sneak away from his current duties for half an hour, showing up unexpectedly around the time Hannah starts slicing up the cake. He gives Castiel a hardy handshake, beaming in his welcoming, Inias way. He also tries hauling Dean from his office, having missed the fact that Miriam and Hannah’s similar attempts have already failed. Dean waves off their suggestions to join under the guise of having too much work to finish before the weekend.

“Alright, if you’re sure,” Inias says to Dean, stepping away from his office. “Have fun being miserable,” he adds, parting with a wave.

Castiel takes all their attention in stride, smiling in his restrained way. But Dean catches the way his gaze casts around, circling back to Dean’s office again and again. Once, Castiel manages to glance over before Dean can avert his eyes. He seizes Dean’s gaze and holds it, some plaintive message carried in the tilt of his head, the furrowed lift of his brow.

A hollow place beside Dean’s heart aches, thinking of what might have been.

It’s too late to worry about that anymore. Dean shuts his blinds and returns to his laptop. His defect list isn’t going to close itself.

It’s not until a while later, when the murmur of laughter and conversation has died down on the cubicle floor, that Dean receives a knock on his door. When he turns, chair creaking on its swivel, he finds Castiel standing there in the doorway, a plate of cake perched in hand.

He’s wearing the stupid party hat still—a blue cardboard cone designed to look like it’s covered in confetti, its elastic band fitted snug beneath his chin. He looks strangely young, his blue eyes guileless, taking Dean in like he’s something special to watch.

“You missed the cake,” Castiel said, stepping forward, “so I brought you a slice.”

The sight of him slices open the wound still throbbing in Dean’s chest. He has to look away.

Castiel pushes the styrofoam plate across his desk, large hands twisting it so its plastic fork is positioned ready for Dean to grab. Castiel then takes a small step back and, as if only realizing he still has it on, quickly removes the party hat, setting it on the corner of Dean’s desk.

Dean can sense his nerves like a current thrumming on the air. Castiel is anxious, but it isn’t enough to get him to leave.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles. He stabs the fork through the cake’s middle, loading up too big a portion to eat at once. Heedless, he shoves half the cake slice straight into his mouth and chews it noisily.

“So,” Castiel says. “It’s my last day.”

Dean hums, noncommittal. Icing hangs from the corners of his mouth, twitching as he eats the cake without a hint of joy.

Castiel’s mouth flattens into an unhappy line. His fingers twitch at his sides, begging to seek each other out. It’s clear he wants to say something more, but Dean isn’t going to make it easy for him, not when the past month for Dean has been a living hell.

Finally, he’s had enough of the awkward silence. Smearing at his mouth with the back of his hand, Dean gets up, walks past Cas, and pulls open his door. With his other hand, he gestures broadly for Cas to leave.

“Good luck with your new job,” Dean says, extending a handshake. Nothing says he can’t be polite about it, even if he thinks Castiel is a dick.

But Castiel does not accept the proffered hand. Instead, he stares down at Dean’s palm like it’s a foreign creature. His own hand tucks nervously into the pocket of his pants.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, and in a swift motion he completes two actions in succession.

First, he wrenches the door out from Dean’s grip, sending it on a swift arc closed.

Second, his hand escapes its pocket and closes around Dean’s offered hand, pushing something small into Dean’s now closed fist.

Dean stumbles back beneath the strength of Castiel closing in on him, walking him backward. A breath punches out when his back hits the wall.

“Cas,” Dean blurts, pulse rising with proximity. As much as he wants to—as much as _he’s wanted_ to—they shouldn’t—not while they’re—

Castiel touches the tail of Dean’s tie. Draws it down between his fingers, until Dean can feel the tension building in his grip.

Cas tilts his head, lips parted, and Dean knows what he will do before it begins.

Dean shuts his eyes. He leans in, breath shaky, as Cas tugs his tie and reels him in.

Cas slides a hand to the back of Dean’s neck, curving him down. Kissing him. Gentle. Yielding.

Lips bump the corner of Dean’s mouth; Castiel’s tongue snakes out to collect a stripe of sweetness.

Every muscle in Dean’s body wants him to curl in closer. He moves his head so that’s not all Castiel can do, treating this like some kind of excuse to taste the icing from his mouth. He takes hold of Cas at his hips, wraps his hands around his back, and deepens their kiss, drawing Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth and worrying it, sucking until it releases with a wet pop.

Castiel groans, his breaths hitching. He palms the side of Dean’s head, thumb running over the shell of Dean’s ear. He touches their mouths together again, firmer, deeper, fingers tightening in Dean’s hair.

Dean’s tongue slides into his mouth, breaking Cas open on a raspy sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel breathes, pulling back. “I know you’re angry with me, but I—”

Low in his throat, Dean growls out, “Don’t.” He kisses Castiel to keep him from speaking again.

But Castiel remains adamant, drawing back once more. “Dean, I want you to know. You have to know that this”—another kiss—”I don’t want to be just an office fling.”

Dean exhales hard through his nose. He shuts his eyes and turns his head, evading the next kiss Castiel attempts to give. “Don’t know if I believe you.”

“I know,” Castiel says sadly. His brow touches against Dean’s, leaning in fully when Dean doesn’t push him away. “And I don’t blame you. I’m not good at people. I don’t always know what to do. And I’ve been—distant, but that’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

“Sure, Cas,” Dean says, unable to stifle its bitter edge.

“I mean it,” Castiel says. “If I could do things over…”

The hand on his tie withdraws. As they come apart, Dean finds the piece of paper Cas pressed into his palm.

Dean raises a brow at it, so Castiel explains, “My contact information. Now that my work number is retired…” He shrugs, like it’s an answer to anything. “I won’t bother you anymore. Just know that I’ll be there, when you’re ready. If you feel the same.”

Castiel’s small smile fades, the longer Dean stands there without responding. He nods once, sharply, before reaching for the door, leaving the room as quietly as he had entered it.

Now alone, Dean stares at the square of paper Castiel left for him. He crumples it in his fist, tosses it on the desk beside the party hat Cas likewise left behind.

When the end of the day comes, Dean waits alone in his office, door closed. Only after the light in Castiel’s office goes out one final time does Dean pack up his belongings. He puts the party hat in the trash, his laptop in his messenger bag.

Only once this ritual is completed does Dean allow himself to pick up Castiel’s paper. To smooth it out, unfold it. The inside fold has a single line of information: ten digits, broken into telephone format. Castiel’s new cell number. But as the page further unfurls, Dean realizes there’s more to the note than the promised contact information.

A letter is buried within.

Dean takes a deep breath. Flips it open.

He reads as far as _Dear Dean_ before crumpling it once again.

He doesn’t have the strength to read it yet. But he also doesn’t dare throw it away.

It can wait. Lord knows Dean has done his own fair share of waiting. It’s only right that Cas should have to experience the same.


	14. RELEASE FOURTEEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I miss you_ , Dean types into the chat box. 
> 
> _I should’ve gone after you._
> 
> _I thought we could have been something._

The next couple weeks of work pass in a mindless blur.

Dean knows, intellectually, that defects are still coming in. That the implementations team is still passing them impromptu updates. That products is still scheduling more work than he and Miriam alone can bear. He knows this is all happening—he can sense how the rest of legacy thrums with life around him—

But he just doesn’t care.

Dean plugs his way through eight hours each day, waiting for five o’clock to roll in. He dawdles around the coffee cubby before break time begins, glancing instinctually over at the empty office where Castiel used to sit, and chats overlong with Miriam and Anael when they come by to refill their cups. The rest of the time, he watches his email inbox listlessly, responding to each message seconds after each alert pings.

Then, when the day is done, Dean goes home and connects to his workplace VPN, guilt fueling his compulsive need to get back on top of his defect list. He fixes defects until his eyes ache and his head throbs, when the late hour finally forces him to bed.

It’s a completely inefficient use of time, but Dean doesn’t know how else to respond to the ennui now clouding his days. Because whether Castiel actually put his name in for it, enough time has passed for Dean to know he isn’t getting the legacy systems analyst position. Again.

Surprise, surprise. How stupid of him to think anything different would happen to him.

So Dean works with the fire out in his heart. He is an automaton, a machine moving on auto-pilot through each day.

Sometimes it helps, telling himself to keep going, that he just needs to survive until Castiel’s replacement is hired. The new SA will shake things up, maybe inject a little life into legacy. But as the weeks pass and their time without an SA grows, Dean doubts that his routine will change just yet.

“Listen, Dean,” Bart begins, strangely somber—probably because this is the third time Dean has called him about it this week. “We just don’t have it in the cards to get a new analyst for legacy. The accountants can’t justify the expenditure. You understand, right? You can just… keep filling in?”

“Right,” Dean says woodenly. Just last week, Bart promised that a new SA was coming right around the corner. So much for that.

The SA they hired—if they hired one at all—must have gone to a more important project. Lord knows legacy is hardly a blip on the radar, these days.

Dean hangs up, the receiver dropped onto its cradle. He spends the next two hours refreshing his inbox, waiting for new messages to come in.

Sometimes, when Dean is feeling particularly miserable, he opens his work messenger app and navigates to Castiel’s old contact, buried deep down on the timeline. Their conversations are still there, even though the account has been deactivated. Dean can scroll back through their history, trying to place the exact moment where he went from thinking of Castiel as the enemy into him being a friend.

_I miss you_ , Dean types into the chat box.

_I should’ve gone after you._

_I thought we could have been something._

But he backspaces out of whatever he types, adding to the list of all the things left unsaid.

When the weekend comes, Dean hardly moves beyond the comfortable confines of his bedroom. He sets a movie up on his laptop, props himself up with pillows. Spends half the time cycling listlessly through his phone, playing stupid games instead of actually watching the film.

“You sound burned out,” Sam tells him, during one of their video chats. “Maybe you should take a break. D’you have any vacation time left?”

Dean laughs hollowly. He hasn’t taken a vacation day in over five years. “Sure,” he says to Sam, if only to offer some semblance of comfort.

Judging by the worry lines etched around his puppy-dog eyes, Sam doesn’t seem convinced. As if summoning a specter, Sam even suggests, “There’s no harm in looking for a different job. Especially if you’re feeling detached from what you’re doing right now.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean’s been thinking about that too, lately. If Bart and Adler won’t give him the analyst position when he’s already doing it, when there’s zero prospects on the market, who’s to say they’ll ever consider him for a promotion?

Dean scrubs his knuckles into his eye. Scrapes a hand over his face. “S’just—a good job, Sammy. Good money. I like what I’m doing.” It feels dishonest as he says it, even though historically, most days it’s been true.

“I get that, Dean, I really do.” Sam looks heartbroken, his affection for Dean shining from his eyes. “But that’s not to say it’s the only job you’ll ever love. There are other companies out there. Better companies. People who’ll be loyal to you in return.”

Dean exhales sharply. Somehow he doubts that any job out there will care about him the way he invests himself in it. He mumbles, “Thanks,” to his brother, and soon after their conversation drops off; the call ends.

Sighing, Dean shuts his laptop. Tosses his cell phone with it to the far side of the bed.

The afternoon light faded during his call, the bedroom shifting into evening, shadows painted blue and gray. Dean reviews it all without thinking, head slumped against the pillows, legs sprawled out, loose, on the bed ahead of him. He stretches his arms out to either side, hands smoothing ripples from the blankets. Reaching for something he cannot name.

One edge of the bed is closer; Dean’s hand falls over it, hanging out over the black.

He turns to look.

On the nightstand is Castiel’s crumpled letter, the same place as it’s been since Dean tossed it there, weeks earlier. Tucked between the spare pens and empty bottles, a phone charger snaked beneath it.

He doesn’t want to read it, as much as he wishes he could. But Dean picks up the letter. Smooths it with shaking hands against his chest. Unfolds the edges of it until its words appear.

_Dear Dean,_

_I wish I weren't leaving you like this. There are so many things I want to tell you; some of them foolish and inconsequential. The more recent, terrifying and hard. But it's you I want to tell them to._

_Only you._

_My biggest fear is that you won’t believe me. Or maybe that you will blame yourself for faults that are clearly mine. I have made so many mistakes during our time together. Some of them the same mistakes over and over again. But you must know, you have to, that our night together was never one of them._

_Knowing you has been the best part of this entire ride, Dean. And if I could do it all over again, I would only change the smallest things._

_I would have better appreciated our time together._

_I would have sought you out sooner. Told you more terrible jokes, just to see you smile._

_I would have forced myself to be braver. I would have told you more times (Hundred of times. Thousands. As many times you needed to hear it.) just how extraordinary you are. Because you are incredible, Dean. Astonishingly selfless. Loving, courageous, and kind. Unerringly loyal, even to those of us that don't deserve it._

_You're the best man I've ever known, and I am blessed for having known you. My world has only been made brighter, knowing you are there._

_I only hope our paths cross sometime again. If only so I can make amends, and give back even a fraction of the light you’ve given me._

_All my love,_

_Cas_

Dean folds the letter closed. Drops it to his chest, hands atop it. He stares at the shadows of his bedroom, up along the ceiling. Trying desperately to think of nothing. Thinking of everything, together, at the same time.

He drags his hand along the bedspread beside him, until his fingers brush something.

Retrieving his cell phone, Dean adds a new contact to his list.

* * *

On Monday, Dean puts in a request for vacation time.

It’s just a week—four days, actually, aligned with the end of a long weekend—and the dates are still a month out. As much as Dean wishes he could escape the office sooner, company policy dictates that they need thirty days advance notice given for any planned time off.

So Dean does what they need. He’s waited this long already to take care of himself anyway. Lord knows he can handle waiting a couple extra weeks.

Sam is excited for him, when Dean breaks the news, especially when he starts mulling over whether he could make it out to see them during his vacation. ( _“No promises,” Dean keeps insisting, since a flight out there and back is necessary evil to make the most out of his time_.) Eileen is equally encouraging, albeit more understanding of Dean’s travel apprehensions. ( _“Just take care of yourself,” she reminds Dean, as Sam, in the background, declares, “He can take care of himself here too!” and Dean laughs at them both._ )

Dean puts the request in for vacation time a month before he wants to take it, but Adler doesn’t get back to him until another two weeks have passed.

The email comes mid-way through a Thursday afternoon. Dean clicks on it right away, excitement brimming in his chest.

_Sorry_ , states Adler’s email, _But I am on vacation that week and the one before it and i need you to fill in for me at the development meetings. can you take your vacation days some other time?_

Dean rocks back in his chair. Disappointment claws up his chest, scraping raw his throat. His eyes burn, stinging, dry.

The one time—the _one_ damn time he needs to lick his wounds and heal outside of work hours, and his boss is giving him more work instead. Dean doesn’t even know half of what Zach’s work day looks like, except it hardly includes legacy.

Dean already handles half of legacy’s development, and all of its SA. Just how is he supposed to even hope to fill in for his manager on top of everything?

Something venomous uncoils inside Dean, squeezing his chest. His breath.

Dean rolls his chair sharply back to his desk. His fingers buzz above the keyboard, ready to sting.

How bad would it be if he wrote back—

He has his savings, so it’s not like he’d starve if he—

“Fuck it,” Dean tells himself.

The parachute will open.

Dean jumps.

_Sure_ , Dean replies back, _I’ll take my vacation some other time_.

Dean fires off the email before he can second-guess it, his blood singing with life and purpose.

He then switches over to a search browser, opening links for the first ten job posting sites given in its results.

* * *

Outside the office, on a momentous day not much later, Dean sits in the Impala’s driver seat, tapping his cell phone against his thigh. Thinking.

Deciding.

With a sharp inhale, he dials a particular contact, and waits an eternity for the phone call to connect.

“So I quit,” Dean blurts, unable to contain himself, as soon as life breathes on the other line. He feels electric, alert and alive in a way he hasn’t felt for years. Every cell in his body is sparking with unbridled joy.

The call stretches in a puzzled pause, resolving abruptly in a sweeping gust of laughter, adoring and summer-sweet. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean can’t help smiling too, just from the sound of Castiel’s voice. “Heya, bud. Long time, no see.”

Castiel hums, a bright sound that sinks into Dean’s skin. “I’ve missed you. And a lot of other things, it seems. Congratulations.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Been a long time coming. ‘Bout time I made a change.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.” Dean scrubs the back of his neck, summoning strength. “I, uh. Missed you too. Feels weird, not seeing you around here.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Castiel laughs lightly. “I keep looking over at my coworker’s desk, thinking I might see you there.”

“You at work?” Dean straightens. “If this is a bad time, I can call back—”

“Dean,” Castiel cuts in, fond. “It’s fine. Tell me, when did you give your notice?”

“Uh, just today. This afternoon.” Dean huffs a breath, smiling. “You were the first person I wanted to tell. Figured you’d—get it. Seeing how you also… yeah.”

“Well, I’m honored,” Castiel says, his voice a smile. “When’s your last day?”

“Technically, today?” Dean laughs. “Told Raph to use my vacation days as my notice. Just packed up my stuff, gave a couple hugs to the girls, and sailed straight out the door.”

Castiel is laughing now; Dean preens. “Bet Bart was angry.”

“Didn’t stick around to see it, but I can imagine.” Dean sobers, smile drawing thin. “Why didn’t you tell me what he was doing to you? Before you left.”

Castiel sighs. “I don’t know. I should have. But you were already—acting like I was dead to you. I didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire.”

“Yeah.” Dean scratches at the bench seat beside him, pulling on a loose string. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then: “Did you read my letter? It’s okay if you didn’t.”

Dean’s breath hitches. His grip tightens on the cell phone. “I did.”

Castiel hums. “Good. Even so, I’ll say it again, Dean: I’m sorry. I screwed up—”

“No, Cas. C’mon.” Dean shakes his head. “I screwed up too. I should’ve...” He exhales roughly. “I should’ve gone after you. After we…” He trails off, uncertain how much to say.

“I really…” Castiel hesitates. “I would like to see you again.”

Dean nods to himself. “Me too.”

“What are your plans, now that you’ve quit? Do you have another job lined up?”

“Not yet.” The corner of Dean’s mouth curls upward. “But I’m gonna drive out to the coast, see Sam and Eileen for a bit. Been years since we…” He clears his throat. “Anyways. Guess I miss hanging out with the little pain in the ass.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Castiel chuckles. “I’m so happy for you.”

Dean grins as well. “Same. But I was thinking—after. When I come back. Maybe we could… Have dinner together. Get some takeout. Y’know.” He grunts. “Like old times.”

“Another pasta night?” Castiel says, chuckling.

“Or something else? I mean, we gotta keep our batting average up somehow...”

Castiel laughs, and Dean loves it, how it soothes the tangled knot in his chest; his heart softens and unwinds.

“Alright,” Castiel agrees. “You pick supper then. You’re better at it anyways.”

“Deal.”

The call drifts into a comfortable silence. Dean settles back against his seat, tension melting from his limbs.

Castiel says eventually, “I’m so glad you called. It’s so good to hear from you.”

“Yeah, uh. You too, Cas. It’s good to hear your voice.”

Castiel makes a soft noise. “I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Yeah.” Dean nods firmly. “You can count on it.”

They exchange goodbyes. Dean hangs up. He stares out the front windshield, smiling at nothing. The cell phone sits warm in his hand.

Sighing, Dean pokes his phone back to life again. Dialing the number by heart, Dean waits for his brother to pick up. “Hey, Sammy. Guess who’s driving out to see you next week.”

“Uh, you?” Sam says, laughing. “What the hell happened to you flying here?”

“Got a minute?” Dean grins. “Because it’s been one helluva ride.”


	15. PATCH FIFTEEN (EPILOGUE)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean collects Castiel’s hand as he passes, hissing playfully when their cold fingers touch. “Should’ve worn mitts,” he teases. “Gonna get frostbite.”

_A Few Months Later_

* * *

“So who are we meeting again?” Dean asks, tugging on his collar. He keeps staring over Castiel’s shoulder at the mirror, wondering who’s looking back at him in that button-down shirt and coiffed-back hair.

“Colleagues. Friends. Now hold still,” Castiel murmurs, hands on Dean’s tie. The knot hangs a few inches below its intended target, both end lengths hopelessly mismatched. Castiel tugs to readjust them, dissolving the integrity of the knot; Dean watches the frown building on his brow as he undoes it fully, cursing, and redoes the knot an additional time.

“Hey.” Dean stills Castiel’s hands by enveloping them with his own. “You said this isn’t a fancy event.”

“It isn’t, I just—” Castiel exhales sharply. “My faculty is hiring, and if we run into my boss, I want you to have the best shot at getting—”

“I know,” Dean replies, gentle. “But as much as I like you, I’m not looking for a job next to you on campus. The salvage yard’s been good to me anyways.”

Cas sighs softly, glancing aside, guilty, when Dean adds, “I _mean_ it.” It’s a symptom of a mindset threaded inside Cas by his over-ambitious brothers, one Dean is still working to unravel. “The yard owner’s a real bastard, but he’ll sponsor my hours. And I get to take apart as many cars as I like. Get grease on my hands.” Grinning, he swipes at Castiel’s cheek in emphasis.

“I know, but you deserve the best. I don’t want you to miss out on any opportunities.”

“I won’t,” Dean assures him. “So let’s forget the tie. Okay? We’re gonna be late.”

Sighing, Castiel nods. “Right. Okay.”

Dean grins a little, as Castiel tugs the tie loose from his neck.

* * *

They take the Impala to the campus, and park in one of the more secluded parking lots, offside in hopes of avoiding neighboring stall-mates. Dean takes a moment to scrape melted ice out from beneath the wipers, to brush off the residual snow pelleting her front lights. Castiel shifts his weight, gait stiff—partly from nerves, partly from the weather—while he waits.

Dean collects Castiel’s hand as he passes, hissing playfully when their cold fingers touch. “Should’ve worn mitts,” he teases. “Gonna get frostbite.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and holds tightly onto Dean, their hands sealed together as they cross the icy parking lot.

The doors to the college are brightly lit, surrounded by people milling about in thick coats and woolen hats, breaths pluming in the cold night air. Castiel waves to someone he knows before pulling Dean inside, the entryway emptying out into a grand foyer likewise filled with people.

“So what do they look like?” Dean murmurs, leaning close to Castiel’s ear. Potential freshmen flow around them, chatting, shoulders bumping as they walk.

Castiel keeps his gaze trained forward, skimming the crowd. “One tall, bald with a goatee. One short with long red hair.”

Dean sighs. “Very helpful.”

“We’ll find them if we keep moving.”

“Alright.” Dean hooks an arm through Castiel’s and tugs him closer, stuck fast to his side amid the crowd moving around them.

The foyer becomes an open atrium-cum-food court, tables thrumming with groups of parents chatting with their teenage children. Faculty must be floating somewhere around them, because the occasional professor gets abruptly pulled aside by such a family cluster; handshakes and introductions are quickly exchanged, followed by questions shouted over the volume of the room.

“Are they maybe over…?” Dean asks, just as Castiel loudly grunts from something grabbing him from behind. Dean gets pulled along by the hug being thrown around Castiel, wheeling them both off-kilter.

A young woman hooks her chin over Castiel’s shoulder, squeals, “You made it!” into his ear. She squeezes him tightly before letting go, brushing stray strands of red hair off her face. She looks to Dean, beaming. “And you’re Dean, aren’t you. Hello, welcome! We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hi,” Dean says blankly, hand taken and vigorously shaken by the woman.

“Charlie,” Castiel supplies, looking fondly between Dean and the woman. “She teaches computer science on campus.”

Recognition dawns in Dean, pinging on the name. “Ahh, yeah. You and Cas met at the LGBT club, right?”

“Guilty as charged,” Charlie laughs. “I also help out at the technology center. Just when I’m feeling bored.”

“And she’s always bored,” says a man coming up behind her.

Charlie pshes, knocking the back of her hand into his chest. “Not always. Just between classes and office hours.”

Dean guesses this is Castiel’s other coworker, judging by the goatee. “Dean,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Victor,” the man replies, shaking it. “Justice studies.”

Dean grins. “You’d get along with my brother, Sam.”

“He’s the lawyer, right?” Victor glances to Castiel, who nods. “Yeah, we might have a thing or two to talk about.”

The foyer is too noisy to hold a proper conversation, so Charlie suggests they go for coffee at a shop off-campus, and leads them down a hall towards a different exit. The crowd thins the further they wander from the heart of the campus. Castiel points out the math and engineering departments as they walk by, the buildings that house administration, where he works.

“Over there,” Charlie says, pointing to a strip mall a block down from the campus. This far out from the main gathering, the air is quiet, the snow crisp underfoot.

“Thank god,” Victor murmurs, once they’ve entered the shop, a bell above the door tinkling as it shuts behind them. A bank of booth seating fills the far wall, a few patrons sitting among them. The front window contains an old sofa and mismatched armchairs, recently vacated. Castiel plunks down besides Victor on the worn leather couch, pulling Dean down beside him. They remove their winter coats, toss them over the back of the couch. Castiel reaches over to Dean, taking back his hand.

“Coffee, anybody?” Charlie asks, waving toward the chalkboard sign listing the drinks available to order.

“It’s after dinner, Charles,” Victor groans. “Too late for caffeine.”

Charlie shrugs. “I’m going to be up late anyways. Dean? Cas?”

Dean waves the offer up, but Castiel requests a hot chocolate. Charlie winks and shoots a finger-gun over to him, heading for the order bar.

“So how do you know each other?” Dean asks, motioning between Cas and Victor, and so Victor regales them with some convoluted story involving an absent TA and a downed computer network, something where Cas got called out from the administration office to try and help out.

“He’s hopeless,” Victor says, laughing, “I mean, real hopeless. Gotta hope you’re better with computers than him.”

“He is,” Castiel says, smiling at Dean. “When Dean puts his mind to something, it’s going to be handled easily.”

“Aww, shucks.” Dean ducks his head down. He taps his wet boot against Castiel’s. “Careful, or I’ll think you like me.”

“Heaven forbid,” Castiel murmurs, squeezing Dean’s hand in reply.

Charlie asks, “So what do you do now, Dean? Cas mentioned that you recently quit?”

“Yeah, a couple months back.” Dean scratches his neck. “Office life just wasn’t for me. I’m working at a junkyard now instead.”

“Singer’s Salvage,” Castiel supplies. “Debating getting your journeyman’s, right?”

Dean nods. “Clocking my hours for it at any rate. Always liked working on cars, and working with my hands. Spent decades maintaining a family heirloom, and, uh. It’s good. To finally have an excuse to do it for pay.”

“What kind of classic have you got?” Victor asks.

“‘67 Chevy Impala,” Dean says, grinning. “Why, you like old muscle cars?”

Castiel laughs, groaning, “Don’t get him started.” He mouths _thank you_ to Charlie as she passes over a mug of hot chocolate. She takes the armchair by the couch, settling in as Victor leans in closer to Dean, prodding him for Baby’s specs.

The evening passes smoothly. Charlie and Victor are easy to talk to, once Dean gets to know their senses of humor, which type of conversations get them excited. And Cas is calm around them. Relaxed. He’s himself in a way that Dean never really got to see, when they were working at the office. It makes him love Cas all the more.

“This place suits you,” Dean tells Cas, after, when the final bell warns them the coffee shop is about to close, and they all dress up again for the cold hike back to campus.

Castiel ducks his head, smiling at the snow trails kicked around his feet. Snowflakes gather on his lashes, in his dark hair. Dean scuffs a hand through Cas’ hair, ruffling it, prompting Cas to nudge him playfully and tousle his hair in response.

They part ways with Victor and Charlie once they reach the college, exchanging bright goodbyes and promises to see each other again soon. Castiel holds his hand as they walk back to the Impala. His smile hangs steady, bright as a halo, as he continues grinning to himself.

“I’m just—happy,” Castiel responds, when Dean asks him about it, sitting parked as Baby idles, waiting for the car to warm. “I like them, and they liked you. I’m very happy.”

Dean thinks back to the office, which already feels like a lifetime ago. Could he imagine that version of Cas saying he was happy there? Could he imagine himself, knowing what he knows now, saying the same?

“I’m so fucking glad,” Dean says, grinning back. “You seem better. About everything.”

“You too,” Castiel murmurs. He leans across the bench seat, catching Dean’s cheek in a kiss.

Dean beams, his smile turned shyly away. He turns up the heater, kicks the Impala into drive. His hand drops to the bench seat beside him, within arm’s reach. Castiel takes up the offer, winding their fingers together.

“My place, or yours?” Dean asks, once they’re closer to the city center.

“Mm. Yours.”

Dean nods and sets a course for home, winding them down streets made hazy by the falling snow. The road ahead is muzzy but shining, its pathway warm and bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who made it this far, particularly those of you who took a chance on me and followed the fic as it was updating. Writing is an inherently lonely hobby, with hours and hours of labour spent on something that can be consumed far more quickly, but you kept me company and kept my spirits up. This fic sits really close to home, and having your comments there gave me a lot to think about.
> 
> If you're interested in sharing the fic now that it's finished, I have posts made up on both [Tumblr](https://vaudelin.tumblr.com/post/629618749544316928/a-world-well-done-by-vaudelin-mature-54k) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hiyabea/status/1307014212326010880?s=20). 
> 
> I have a small following, so I appreciate all the response you have given me! Thank you all ❤ I really hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [vaudelin](https://vaudelin.tumblr.com).


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